18045	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 18045-h.htm or 18045-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/8/0/4/18045/18045-h/18045-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/8/0/4/18045/18045-h.zip) RUDYARD KIPLING by JOHN PALMER [Frontispiece: Rudyard Kipling] New York Henry Holt and Company First Published in 1915 CONTENTS I. INTRODUCTION II. SIMLA III. THE SAHIB IV. NATIVE INDIA V. SOLDIERS THREE VI. THE DAY'S WORK VII. THE FINER GRAIN VIII. THE POEMS BIBLIOGRAPHY AMERICAN BIBLIOGRAPHY INDEX I INTRODUCTION There is a tale of Mr Kipling which relates how Eustace Cleever, a celebrated novelist, came to the rooms of a young subaltern and his companions who were giving an account of themselves. Eustace Cleever was a literary man, and was greatly impressed when he learned that one of the company, who was under twenty-five and was called the Infant, had killed people somewhere in Burma. He was suddenly caught by an immense enthusiasm for the active life--the sort of enthusiasm which sedentary authors feel. Eustace Cleever ended the night riotously with youngsters who had helped to govern and extend the Empire; and he returned from their company incoherently uttering a deep contempt for art and letters. But Eustace Cleever was being observed by the First Person Singular of Mr Kipling's tale. This receiver of confidences perceived what was happening, and he has the last word of the story: "Whereby I understood that Eustace Cleever, decorator and colourman in words, was blaspheming his own Art and would be sorry for this in the morning." We have here an important clue to Mr Kipling and his work. Mr Kipling writes of the heroic life. He writes of men who do visible and measurable things. His theme has usually to do with the world's work. He writes of the locomotive and the engineer; of the mill-wheel and the miller; of the bolts, bars and planks of a ship and the men who sail it. He writes, in short, of any creature which has work to do and does it well. Nevertheless we must not be misled into thinking that because Mr Kipling glorifies all that is concrete, practical, visible and active he is therefore any the less purely and utterly a literary man. Mr Kipling seems sometimes to write as an engineer, sometimes as a soldier. At times we would wager that he had spent all his life as a Captain of Marines, or as a Keeper of Woods and Forests, or as a Horse-Dealer. He gives his readers the impression that he has lived a hundred lives, mastered many crafts, and led the life, not of one, but of a dozen, active and practical men of affairs. He has created about himself so complete an illusion of adventure and enterprise that it seems almost the least important thing about him that he should also be a writer of books. His readers, indeed, are apt to forget the most important fact as to Mr Kipling--the fact that he is a man of letters. He seems to belong rather to the company of young subalterns than to the company of Eustace Cleever. Hence it is necessary to consider closely the moral of that excellent tale. When Eustace Cleever blasphemed against his art, Mr Kipling predicted he would be sorry for it. Mr Kipling recorded that prediction because he had the best of reasons to know how Eustace Cleever would feel upon the morning after his debauch of enthusiasm for the heroic life. Let each man keep to his work, and know how good it is to do that work as well as it can be done. Eustace Cleever's work was to live the life of imagination and to handle English words--work as difficult to do and normally as useful as the job of the Infant. Though for one heady night Eustace Cleever yearned after a strange career, Mr Kipling knew that he would return without misgiving to the thing he was born to do. Mr Kipling, like Eustace Cleever, knows that though nothing is more pleasant than to talk with young subalterns, yet the born author remains always an author. He knows, too, that even the deeds he admires in the men who make history are, for him, no more than raw stuff to be taken in hand or rejected according to the author's need. Mr Kipling, in short, is a man of letters, and we shall realise, before we have done with him, that he is an extremely crafty and careful man of letters. Tales which seem to come out of the barrack-yard, out of the jungle or the deep sea, out of the dust and noise where men are working and building and fighting, come really out of the study of an expert craftsman using the tools of his craft with deliberate care. This may seem an unnecessary warning. The intelligent reader will protest that, since Mr Kipling writes books, it does not seem very necessary to deduce that he is a man of letters. It is true that no such warning would be necessary in the case of most writers of books. It would be pure loss of time, for example, to begin a study of the work of Mr Henry James by asserting that Mr Henry James was a man of letters. But Mr Kipling is in rather a different case. The majority of readers with whom one discusses Mr Kipling's works are sometimes far astray, simply because they have not realised that Mr Kipling is as utterly a man of letters as Mr Henry James, that he lives as completely the life of fancy and meditation as William Blake or Francis Thompson. Mr Kipling does not write tales out of the mere fullness of his life in many continents and his talk with all kinds of men. He is not to be understood as a man singular only in his experience, unloading anecdotes from a crowded life, excelling in emphasis and reality by virtue of things actually seen and done. On the contrary, Mr Kipling writes tales because he is a writer. Mr Kipling has seen more of the scattered life of the world and been more keenly interested in the work of the world than some of his literary contemporaries. But this does not imply that he is any the less devoted to the craft of letters. Indeed, we shall realise that he is one of the craftiest authors who ever lived. He is more crafty than Stevenson. He often lives by the word alone--the word picked and polished. That he has successfully disguised this fact from many of his admirers is only a further proof of his literary cunning. Mr Kipling often uses words with great skill to create in his readers the impression that words matter to him hardly at all. He will work as hard as the careful sonneteer to give to his manner a tang of rawness and crudity; and thereby his readers are willing to forget that he is a literary man. They are content simply to listen to a man who has seen, and possibly done, wonders in all parts of the world, neglecting to observe that, if the world with its day's work belongs to Mr Kipling, it belongs to him only by author's right--that is, by right of imagination and right of style. It is true that Mr Kipling is lawless and contemptuous of literary formality; and that whenever he talks of "Art," as in certain pages of _The Light That Failed_, he tries to talk as though there were really no such thing. But Mr Kipling's cheerful contempt of all that is pedantic and magisterial in "Art" does not imply that he is innocent of literary discipline. It is true that Mr Kipling is lawless in the sense that all good work is more than a conscious adherence to formula. It is not true in the sense that Mr Kipling is more lawless than Tennyson or Walter Scott. Readers of Mr Kipling's stories must not be misled by his buccaneering contempt for formal art. Mr Kipling's art is as formal as the art of Wilde, or the art of Baudelaire, which he helped to send out of fashion. A few preliminary words are necessary (1) as to the half-dozen dates which bear upon Mr Kipling's authorship and (2) as to the arrangement of his works here to be followed. Mr Kipling was born in 1865, the son of J. Lockwood Kipling, C.I.E. His intimacy with India was determined at birth. He was educated at the United Services College, Westward Ho, but was again in India in 1882, as assistant editor on _The Civil and Military Gazette_ and _The Pioneer_. He remained on the staff of _The Pioneer_ for seven years, and travelled over the five continents. By this time he had learned to think of the world as a place rather more diversified than a walk from Charing Cross to Whitehall would lead one to imagine; to see something of men upon its frontiers, and to love England as men do who come back to her from the ends of the earth. The whole of Mr Kipling's literary biography is contained in the fact that Mr Kipling has been a great traveller who is now inveterately at home. Perhaps we should also note that Mr Kipling was a literary prodigy. _Plain Tales from the Hills_ appeared in 1887. Mr Kipling at twenty-two had shown his quality and had already mapped out in little his career. In _Plain Tales from the Hills_ there are hints for almost everything that their author afterwards accomplished. As the book of a young journalist whose name had not yet been whispered among the publishers and critics of London it was a miracle. If Mr Kipling had been able to improve on _Plain Tales from the Hills_ as much as Shakespeare improved on _Love's Labour's Lost_, as much as Shelley improved on _Queen Mab_, Robert Browning on _Pauline_, Byron on _Hours of Idleness_, he would to-day be without a peer. Mr Granville Barker is often cited as a classical modern example of precocity, but he was twenty-four when he wrote _The Marrying of Anne Leete_. Mr Henry James was twenty-eight before he had published a characteristic word. Mr Thomas Hardy at twenty-five had only printed a short story, and he was more than thirty when his first novel appeared. Mr Kipling came upon the public in 1886 without a preliminary stutter. Mr Kipling at twenty-two could write as craftily as Mr Kipling can write after nearly thirty years' experience. We shall not be greatly concerned in these pages to trace the progress of Mr Kipling's craft and wisdom. He was always crafty and always wise. He had done some of his best work at thirty. He recalls Hazlitt's curious saying that an improving author is never a great author. Mr Kipling is not an improving author. There has been a little moving up and down the scale of excellence; many things hinted in the early volumes from _Plain Tales from the Hills_ to _Many Inventions_ are developed more elaborately and surely in later volumes; the old craft has come to be used with an ease that has in it more of the insolence of a master than was possible in the author of 1887. But so far as literary finish is concerned, _Plain Tales from the Hills_ leaves little to be acquired. Already Mr Kipling wields his implement as deftly and firmly as many a skilled writer who was learning his lesson before Mr Kipling was born. Few authors have so surely scored their best in their earliest years. Authors are considered young to-day at thirty. Mr Kipling at that age had already written _The Jungle Book_. This does not, of course, imply that all Mr Kipling's stories are of equal merit. On the contrary, we shall henceforth be mainly concerned with looking for the inspired author under a mass of skilful journalism. It is not a simple enterprise. Mr Kipling is so competent an author that he is usually able to persuade his readers that his heart is equally in all he writes. Moreover, Mr Kipling has fallen among many prejudices, literary and political, which have caused his least important work to be most discussed. For these reasons the actual, as distinguished from the legendary, Mr Kipling is not easily discovered. Mainly it is a work of excavation. Mr Kipling has been writing short stories for nearly thirty years. His tales are too numerous for disparate discussion. It will be necessary to take them in groups. One or two stories in each group will be taken as typical of the rest. Thereby we shall avoid repetition and be able to show some sort of plan to the maze of Mr Kipling's diversity of subjects and manners. II SIMLA Mr Kipling's Indian stories fall into three groups. There are (1) the tales of Simla, (2) the Anglo-Indian tales, and (3) the tales of native India. There is also _Kim_, which is more--much more--than a tale of India. Mr Kipling's Indian stories necessarily tend to fill a disproportionate amount of space. They are of less account than their number or the attention they have received would seem to imply. Their discussion in this and the two following chapters will be more of a political than a literary discussion. Mr Kipling as journalist and very efficient colourman in words has made much of India in his time. He has perceived in India a subject susceptible of being profitably worked upon. Here was a vast continent, the particular concern of the English, where all kinds of interesting work was being done, where stories grew too thickly for counting, and where there was, ready to the teller's eye, a richness and diversity of setting which beggared the most eager penmanship. Moreover, this continent was virtually untouched in the popular literature of the day. Naturally Mr Kipling made full use of his opportunity. He did not write of India because India was essential to his genius, but because he was shrewd enough to realise that nothing could better serve the purpose of a young author than to exploit his first-hand acquisition of an inexhaustible store of fresh and excellent material. India was annexed by Mr Kipling at twenty-two for his own literary purposes. He was not born to interpret India, nor does he throw his literary heart and soul into the business. When, in the Indian stories, we meet with pages sincerely inspired we discover that their inspiration has very little to do with India and a great deal to do with Mr Kipling's impulse to celebrate the work of the world, and even more to do with his impulse to escape the intellectual casuistry of his generation in a region where life is simple and intense. These aspects of his work will be more clearly revealed at a later stage. For the moment we are considering the Indian tales simply as tales of India; and from this point of view they obviously belong to the journalist rather than to the author who has helped to make the English short story respectable. Mr Kipling simply gets out of India the maximum of literary effect as a teller of tales. India, for example, is mysterious. Mr Kipling exploits her mystery competently and coolly, making his points with the precision, clarity and force of one to whom the enterprise begins and ends as an affair of technical adequacy. The point is made with equal ability that India is not without peril and difficulty ruled and administered by the sahibs; or that India has a complicated history; or that India is thickly peopled. Mr Kipling in his Indian tales makes the most of his talent for observing things, always with a keen eye for their effective literary employment. His Indian tales are descriptive journalism of a high quality; and, being journalism, their matter and their doctrine have hit hard the attention of their particular day. This reduces us to the necessity of considering not so much their form and quality as the ideas and doctrines they contain--a barren task but necessary in order to clear away many misconceptions with regard to Mr Kipling's work. Regarded as literature, Mr Kipling's Indian tales are mainly of note as preparing in him that enthusiasm for the work of the world which, later, was to inspire his greatest pages; as finally leading him in _Kim_ to a door whereby he was able to pass into the region of pure fancy where alone he is supremely happy, and as prompting in him the instinct to simplify which urged him into the jungle and into the minds of children. But all this has very little to do with India. So long as we are dealing with Mr Kipling's Indian stories as in themselves finished and intrinsic studies of India, we remain only in the suburbs of Mr Kipling's merit as an author. The Simla tales are not more than a skilful employment of a literary convention which Mr Kipling did not inherit. The Anglo-Indian and native tales are the not less skilful work of a young newspaper man breaking into a storehouse of new material. We are interested firstly in Mr Kipling's craft as a technician, as one who makes the most of his theme deliberately and self-consciously; and secondly in Mr Kipling's point of view, in the impressions and ideas he has collected concerning the country of which he writes. Until we arrive at _The Day's Work_ we shall be mainly occupied in clearing the ground of impertinent prejudices concerning Mr Kipling's temperament and politics. For though the Indian and soldier tales are as literature not impregnable to criticism, they can at any rate be rescued from those who have annexed or repudiated them from motives which have little to do with their literary value. We will begin with the Simla tales. Characteristically the author who began virtually at the end of his career--proclaiming himself a finished virtuoso at the start--entered into prose with a volume of tales, radiating from Simla, which betray qualities that are usually associated with the later rather than with the early work of an author. _Plain Tales from the Hills_ number more Simla stories to the square page than any other volume of Mr Kipling. Now Mr Kipling's Simla stories are the least important, but in some ways the most significant of all the stories he wrote. They begin and they end in sheer literary virtuosity. We feel in reading Mr Kipling's studies of the social world at Simla that he had no intuitive call to write them; that they are exercises in craft rather than genuine inspirations. Mrs Hawksbee stands for nothing in Mr Kipling's achievement save only for his power to create an illusion of reality and enthusiasm by sheer finish of style. She is not a creation. She is only the best possible example of the clever sleight-of-hand of an accomplished artificer. She is in literary fiction cousin to the witty, flirtatious ladies of the modern English theatre. Her conversation is delightful, but it belongs to nobody. It does not even belong to her author. Mrs Hawksbee talks as all well-dressed women talk in the best books. She does it with a volubility and resourcefulness which almost disguises the fact that she lives only by hanging desperately to the end of her author's pen; but she cannot deceive us always. Mr Kipling does not really believe in Mrs Hawksbee. He has no real sympathy or knowledge of the social undercrust where the tangle of three is a constant theme. The talk of Mrs Hawksbee and her circle is derived. Its conduct is fashionable light comedy in an Indian setting. Simla really does not deserve to be known outside the Indian Empire. It is a comparatively cool place whither Indian soldier and civilians send their wives in the hot weather and whither they retire themselves under medical advice. It is not unlike any other warm and idle city of rest where there is every kind of expensive amusement provided for a migratory population. Mr Kipling has failed to make Simla interesting, because Simla is Biarritz and Monte Carlo or any place which in fiction is frequented by people who behave naughtily and enjoy themselves, and in real life is frequented by the upper middle classes mechanically passing the time. Mr Kipling's ingenious pretences regarding Simla are amusing, but they cannot long conceal from his readers that these tales, apart from literary exhibition, were really not worth the telling. Mr Kipling pretends, of course, even at twenty-four, to know of all that passes between women unlacing after a ball; but Mr Kipling's pretended omniscience is part of his literary method, and he does not quite carry it off in the Simla tales. He gives us not Simla or any place under the sun, but a sparkling stage version of Simla--all dancing and delight, a little intrigue, a touch of sentiment, patches of excellent fun, and now and then a streak of Indian mystery. But Mr Kipling's heart is not really in this business. His Simla tales will not endure, and they have been given too much prominence in the popular idea of his work. They are not plain tales, but tales very artfully coloured. They fall far short of the standard to which Mr Kipling has raised the English short story. Yet even here we may note the skill with which the author has concealed his failure. Mrs Hawksbee may be taken as a symbol of the distinction between the work of an inspired author and the work of an author playing with his tools. Mr Kipling of _The Jungle Books_ and _The Day's Work_ is an inspired author. Mr Kipling of the Simla tales, on the other hand, is simply concerned to show that he can work a conventional formula of the day as well as any man; that he can redeem the formula with individual touches beyond the reach of most; and can enliven it with impudent pretences which please by virtue of their being utterly preposterous. Take, for example, the pretence that Mrs Hawksbee is a charming woman. Mrs Hawksbee is really nothing of the kind. She is an anthology of witty phrases. She is the abstract perfection of what a clever head and a good heart is expected to be in a fashionable comedy. But Mr Kipling desires her to be accepted as a charming woman. His procedure, on a high and delicate plane, is precisely the procedure to which we are accustomed on a low and obvious plane in the majority of popular novels where the hero has to be accepted for a man of brilliant genius. We have to take the author's word for it. The author who tells us that his hero is a genius usually requires us to believe it without further proof. He does not show us a page of the hero's music or the hero's poetry, but we must believe that it is very fine, even though the hero loves Pietro Mascagni and worships Martin Tupper. Similarly Mr Kipling, presenting us with Mrs Hawksbee, nowhere affords us direct evidence that she is a charming woman. He assumes it, gets everyone else in the story to assume it, and expects his readers to assume it--his cunning as a writer being of so remarkable a quality that there are very few of the Simla tales in which the reader is not prepared to assume it for the sake of the story. Mrs Hawksbee is typical of the majority of Mr Kipling's studies in social comedy. His success in this kind is remarkable, but it is barren. Mr Kipling realised this himself quite early, for he quite soon abandoned Simla. There are some sixteen stories in _Plain Tales from the Hills_ into which the Simla motive is threaded. In the books immediately following, published in 1888 and 1889, Simla is not wholly abandoned, but the proportion of Simla stories is less. _The Phantom Rickshaw_ (1889) is the last story which can fairly be brought within the list, and this story can only be included by straining its point to vanishing. Of all the groups of stories in _Plain Tales from the Hills_ the Simla group, though it was largest, promised least for the future. III THE SAHIB There is another group of Indian tales, a group which deals with the governance of India--with the men who are spent in the Imperial Service. The peculiar charm and merit of these tales is best considered as a special case of Mr Kipling's delight in the world's work--a subject which claims a chapter to itself. But apart from this, Mr Kipling's Anglo-Indian tales--his presentation of the work of the Indian Empire, of the Anglo-Indian soldier and civilian--have an unfortunate interest of their own. They are mainly responsible for a misconception which has dogged Mr Kipling through all his career. This misconception consists in regarding Mr Kipling as primarily an Imperialist pamphleteer with a brief for the Services and a contempt for the Progressive Parties. It is an error which has acted mischievously upon all who share it--upon the reader who mechanically regrets that Mr Kipling's work should be disfigured with fierce heresy; upon the reader who chuckles with sectarian glee when the "much talkers" are mocked and confounded; upon Mr Kipling himself who has been encouraged to mistake an accident of his career as the essence of his achievement and to regard himself as a sort of Imperial laureate. The origin of this misconception is not obscure. Mr Kipling has written intimate tales of the British Army: he is, therefore, a "militarist." He has lived in India many years, and realised that men who live in India, and administer India, and come into personal contact with Hindus and Mohammedans, know more about India than Members of Parliament who run through the Indian continent between sessions: he is, therefore, a reviler of the free democratic institutions of Great Britain. He has realised that Government departments in Whitehall are not always thought to be very expeditious, well informed and devoted by men who are often confronted with matters that cannot afford to wait for a telegram: he is, therefore, a lover of the high hand and of courses brutal and irregular. He has celebrated the toil and the adventure of pioneers and of outposts: he is, therefore, one who brandishes unseasonably the Imperial sword. The grain of truth in these deductions is heavily outweighed by the massive absurdity of regarding them as in any sense essential. Mr Kipling brings political prejudice into his work less than almost any living contemporary. At a time when there was hardly an English novel or an English play of consequence which was not also a political pamphlet it was completely false to regard Mr Kipling as a pamphleteer. When most of our English authors were talking from the platform, Mr Kipling--with a few, too few, others--remained apart. He is suspect, not because his Anglo-Indian tales or his army tales are political, but because they record much that is true of the English Services, which fails to square with much that once was popularly believed about them. The real reason of Mr Kipling's false fame as a politician is, not that he is an Imperial pamphleteer, but that, writing of the Army and the Empire, he fails to be a pamphleteer on the other side. His detachment, not his partiality, is at fault. Mr Kipling's detachment from the politics of his day explains virtually everything that has offended his modern critics. Almost the first thing to realise in discussing Mr Kipling's attitude to modern life is that Mr Kipling has kept absolutely clear of the political and social drift of the last thirty years. He has been conspicuously out of everything. He has had nothing to say to any of the ideas or influences which have formed his contemporaries. While others of his literary generation were growing up amid intellectual movements, democratic tendencies and advances of humanity, Mr Kipling was standing between two civilisations in India which were hardly susceptible of being reconciled till they had been reduced to very simple terms. The instinct to simplify--to get down to something in nature that included the East with the West, the First with the Twentieth century, was naturally strong in one who was born between two nations; and it was an instinct which drove Mr Kipling in the opposite direction from that in which his contemporaries were moving. While Mr Kipling's generation was learning to analyse, refine and interrogate, to become super-subtle and incredulous, to exalt the particular and ignore the general, to probe into the intricate and sensitive places of modern life, Mr Kipling was looking at mankind in the mass, looking back to the half-dozen realities which are the stuff of the poetry of every climate and period--to love of country which is as old as the waters of Babylon, to the faith of Achates, and the affliction of Job. While Mr Kipling's contemporaries have been working towards minute studies of individuals and groups, Mr Kipling has been content to catch the metal of humanity at the flash point, to wait for the passionate moment which reveals all mankind as of one kindred. "We be of one blood, ye and I"--the phrase of the Jungle holds. To find here evidence of a bias merely political, of an attitude reactionary and hostile to the progress o the world, is to deny sense and meaning to the greatest literature of the world. Mr Kipling's instinctive simplifying of life he shares with the immortals. It is, as we shall see, the immortal part of him. To write of Mr Kipling as though he celebrates the ape and the tiger; extols the Philistine and the brute; calls always for more chops--"bloody ones with gristle"; delights in the savagery of war, and ferociously despises all that separates the Englishman of to-day from his painted ancestor--this is the mistake of critics who cannot distinguish the cant of progress from its reality. We shall be driven more particularly to consider Mr Kipling's atavism in discussing his tales of the British Army. For the present we are dealing only with India and the "Imperialism" which some of Mr Kipling's critics have taken for an offensive proof of his political prejudice. Mr Kipling's treatment of the Anglo-Indian, and of the dealing of the Anglo-Indian with the Indian Empire, has nothing to do with the Yellows and the Blues. The real motive of Mr Kipling's attitude towards the men on the frontier, in places where deadly things are encountered and there is work to be done, is no more a matter of politics, "progressive" or "reactionary," than is his celebration of the Maltese Cat or of .007. "The White Man's Burden" is the burden of every creature in whom there lives the pride of unrewarded labour, of endurance and courage. In India this pride has to be wholesomely tempered with humility; for India is old and vast and incomprehensible, to be handled with care, to be approached as a country which, though it shows an inscrutably smiling face to the modern world, has the power suddenly to baffle its modern rulers by opening to them glimpses of an intricate and unassailable life which cannot be ruffled by Orders in Council or disturbed by the weak ploughing of teachers from the West. The task of the Anglo-Indian administrator is, indeed, the finest opportunity for that heroic life to the celebration of which Mr Kipling has devoted so many of his tales. This hero has a task which taxes all his ability, which promises little riches and little fame, and is known to be tolerably hopeless. It offers to him a supreme test of his virtue--a test in which the hero is accountable only to his personal will; whose best work is its own reward and comfort. "Gentlemen come from England," writes Mr Kipling in one of his Indian tales, "spend a few weeks in India, walk round this great sphinx of the Plains, and write books upon its ways and its work, denouncing or praising it as their ignorance prompts. Consequently all the world knows how the Supreme Government conducts itself. But no one, not even the Supreme Government, knows everything about the administration of the Empire. Year by year England sends out fresh drafts for the first fighting-line, which is officially called the Indian Civil Service. These die, or kill themselves by overwork, or are worried to death, or broken in health and hope, in order that the land may be protected from death and sickness, famine and war, and may eventually become capable of standing alone. It will never stand alone; but the idea is a pretty one, and men are willing to die for it, and yearly the work of pushing and coaxing and scolding and petting the country into good living goes forward. If an advance be made, all credit is given to the native, while the Englishmen stand back and wipe their foreheads. If a failure occurs, the Englishmen step forward and accept the blame." This passage declares the heroic spirit of Mr Kipling's Anglo-Indian tales; and many readers will fail to understand how exactly this spirit has been found vainglorious. There is a passage in Shakespeare where a king's envoy comes to claim of a high-mettled and sweating warrior the fruits of victory. The warrior grudges less surrendering the fruits of victory to the king than he grudges surrendering his anger at being easily and prettily addressed on the field of battle by a polite and dainty fellow who has no idea how dearly the fruits of victory are purchased. Mr Kipling's heroes are frail enough to feel some of this very natural indignation when unbreathed politicians lecture them in the heat of their Indian day. They come into touch with things simple and bitter. India has searched out the value of many a Western shibboleth, destroyed many doctrines, principles, ideas and theories. Phrases which look well in a peroration look foolish when there is immediate work to be done, and expediency begins to rule. The first lesson which the Indian civilian learns, a lesson which is rarely omitted from any of Mr Kipling's Indian stories, is that practical men are better for being ready to take the world as they find it. The men who worship the Great God Dungara, the God of Things as They Are, most terrible, One-eyed, Bearing the Red Elephant Tusk--men who are set on saving their own particular business--have no time for saving faces and phrases. They have small respect for a principle. They have seen too many principles break down under the particular instance. Hence there is in all Mr Kipling's work a disrespect of things which are printed and made much of in the contemporary British press; and this, again, has encouraged the idea that he is "reactionary," contemptuous of the humanities, and enemy of all the best poets and philosophers. It will perhaps be well to look a little closely at one or two of Mr Kipling's Indian series. They will help us to realise how the charges we are discussing have arisen and exactly how unreasonable they are. The first of two excellent examples is the story of _Tods' Amendment_. _Tods' Amendment_ is the story of a Bill brought in by the Supreme Legislative Council of India. Tods was an English baby of six, and he mixed on friendly terms with Indians in the bazaar and with members of the Supreme Legislative Council. The Council was at this time devising a new scheme of land tenure which aimed at "safeguarding the interests" of a few hundred thousand cultivators of the Punjab. The Bill was beautiful on paper; and the Legal Member, who knew Tods, was settling the "minor details." The weak part of the business was that European legislators, dealing with natives, are often puzzled to know which details are the major and which the minor. Also the Native Member was from Calcutta, and knew nothing about the Punjab. Nevertheless, the Bill was known to be a beautiful Bill till Tods happened one evening to be sitting on the knee of the Legal Member, and to hear him mention _The Submontane Tracts Ryotwari Revised Enactment_. Tods had heard the bazaar talking of a new plan for the Ryotwari, as bazaars talk when there is no white man to overhear. Tods began to prattle, and the Legal Member began to listen, till he soon realised that there was only one drawback to the beautiful Bill. The beautiful Bill, in short, was altogether wrong, more especially in the Council's pet clause which so clearly "safeguarded the interests of the tenant." It therefore came about that the rough draft of the Submontane Tracts Ryotwari Revised Enactment was put away in the Legal Member's private paper-box--"and, opposite the twenty-second clause, pencilled in blue chalk, and signed by the Legal Member, are the words, 'Tods' Amendment.'" The moral of the tale is not obscure. A baby who runs in the bazaar is better able to legislate for India than a Supreme Legislative Council. India, in short, is a vast and uncertain land, whose ways are not always learned in a lifetime by the men whose business it is. The argument _a fortiori_--namely, that amiable and humane political philosophers, well bred in the latest European theories of government, are even less likely to be infallible--need not be pursued. Our second story is the story of Aurelian McGoggin. Aurelian McGoggin had read too many books, and he had too many theories. He also had a creed: "It was not much of a creed. It only proved that men had no souls, and there was no God and no hereafter, and that you must worry along somehow for the good of humanity." McGoggin had found it an excellent creed for a Government office, and he brought it to India and tried to teach it to all his friends. His friends had found that life in India is not long enough to waste in proving that there is no one particular at the head of affairs, and they objected. They also warned McGoggin not to be too good for his work, and not to insist on doing it better than it needed to be done, because people in India wanted all their energy for bare life. But McGoggin would not be warned, and one day, when he had steadily overworked and overtalked through the hot season, he was suddenly interrupted at the club, in the middle of an oration. The doctor called it _aphasia_; but McGoggin only knew that he was struck sensationally dumb: "Something had wiped his lips of speech as a mother wipes the milky lips of her child, and he was afraid. For a moment he had lost his mind and memory--which was preposterous and something for which his philosophy did not allow. Henceforth he did not appear to know so much as he used to about things Divine." McGoggin, in fact, was converted; for, as Mr Kipling explains, his story is really a tract--a tract whose purpose is to convey that India is able to cure the most resolute positivist of his positivism. Mr Kipling's India is a land where science is mocked, and synthetic philosophies perish, and mere talk is wiped from the lips. You do not talk of Humanity in India, because in India "you really see humanity--raw, brown, naked humanity--with nothing between it and the blazing sky, and only the used-up, overhandled earth underfoot." Mr Kipling's Indian administrators are practical and simple men, who obey orders and accept the incredible because their position requires them to administer India as though they were never at fault, whereas their experience tells them that, if they are never to be at fault in India, it is wise to be not too original and fatal to be too rigid. _Tods' Amendment_ and _The Conversion of Aurelian McGoggin_ are printed among _Plain Tales from the Hills_. They look forward to a whole series of Anglo-Indian tales which present Mr Kipling's idea of the English in India. Out of his later books we can illustrate a hundred times his conviction that in India the simplest wisdom is the best. But there are two kinds of simplicity. The one kind is illustrated in a tale from _The Day's Work_; it is the right kind of simplicity. In no story of Mr Kipling is the devoted service and practical resourcefulness of the good Civilian so movingly celebrated as in the story of _William the Conqueror_. It is the story of a famine, and of how it was met by the servants of the Indian Government. The administration of famine relief would seem to be a simple thing when the grain has come by rail and only waits to be distributed. But the district served by the little group of English in _William the Conqueror_ was a district which did not understand the food of the North, and, if it could not get the rice which it knew, was ready to starve within reach of bagsful of unfamiliar wheat or rye. The hero of the tale is finally reduced to distributing the Government rations to the goats, and keeping the starving babies alive with milk. It was a simple idea, and the man to whom it occurred worked himself to death's door, which was no more than another simple idea of what was due from him to the district and to his superior officer. The wrong kind of simplicity is illustrated in a story from _Life's Handicap_. It is called _The Head of the District_, and it has to do with a simple idea which occurred to the Viceroy. A Deputy Commissioner who understood the lawless Khusru Kheyel and had put into them the fear of English law had died and a successor had to be appointed. The man for the post was a certain Tallentire who had worked with the late head of the district and knew the tribe with whom he had to deal. But the Viceroy had a Principle. He wished to educate the natives in self-government; and here was an opportunity--a vacant post of responsibility and a native candidate to fill it. "There was a gentleman and a member of the Bengal Civil Service who had won his place and a university degree to boot in fair and open competition with the sons of the English. He was cultured, of the world, and, if report spoke truly, had wisely and, above all, sympathetically ruled a crowded district in South-Eastern Bengal. He had been to England and charmed many drawing-rooms there. His name, if the Viceroy recollected aright, was Mr Grish Chunder Dé, M.A. In short, did anybody see any objection to the appointment, always on principle, of a man of the people to rule the people? The district in South-Eastern Bengal might with advantage, he apprehended, pass over to a younger civilian of Mr G. C. Dé's nationality (who had written a remarkably clever pamphlet on the political value of sympathy in administration); and Mr G. C. Dé could be transferred northward. As regarded the mere question of race, Mr Grish Chunder Dé was more English than the English, and yet possessed of that peculiar sympathy and insight which the best among the best Service in the world could only win to at the end of their service." The principle was sound; but the consequences were such as usually follow when ideas which are simple in one continent are applied in another. Any man on the frontier could have told what would come of asking the Khusru Kheyel to respect and obey Mr Grish Chunder Dé. It was not a matter of religion or ability, but of history. The Khusru Kheyel had had relations with the countrymen of their new Head for generations and they were not relations of respect and obedience. How there was riot and some rapid blood-letting on the border, and how the new Head resigned his office before he had taken it over, is told as a warning that there is a wrong kind of simplicity in dealing with India. It is fatal to have invented simple and embracing phrases about a country which holds more races than all Europe; has had a long and private history of its own; has been more often conquered than Great Britain; and has had every sort of experience except that of being governed according to constitutional law. This chapter being mainly devoted to rescuing Mr Kipling from his political admirers and censors, it may be well to conclude upon his vision of the devoted civilian Scott, the hero of a tale already quoted, the man who fed the Indian babies from a herd of goats fattened on the food which the starving people of the Deccan distrusted and refused. Scott appears in that story at sunset, delectable and humane, sneezing in the dust of a hundred little feet, "a god in a halo of gold dust, walking slowly at the head of his flocks, while at his knee ran small naked cupids." Clearly there is something wrong with the popular habit of regarding Mr Kipling as essentially concerned with the carving of men to the "nasty noise of beef-cutting on the block." His "god in a halo of gold dust" seriously discourages any attempt to brand him with the mark of the reverting carnivor. IV NATIVE INDIA From Simla we have come down to the plains and the work of the English in Imperial India. Thence we pass to India herself. Concerning native India Mr Kipling's principle thesis--a thesis illustrated with point and competency in many excellent tales--is that for the people of the West there can be no such thing as the real India--only here and there an understanding that wavers and frequently expires. Mr Kipling does not insolently explain that India is thus and thus. He allows the impression to grow upon us, as once it grew upon himself, that in India all the settled ways of the West are insecure, that at any moment we may be looking into the House of Suddhu. "A stone's throw out on either hand From that well-ordered road we tread, And all the world is wild and strange: Churel and ghoul and Djinn and sprite Shall bear us company to-night, For we have reached the Oldest Land Wherein the Powers of Darkness range." It is not for an Englishman to speak of the real India. Let him stand with Mr Kipling between East and West, and allow each thing he sees to add to his dark and intricate impression. India will then assume her own uneasy and vast form, will press upon the nerves, and be declared mysterious. There are a few pages in _Life's Handicap_ describing the City of Lahore by night. There is great heat in these pages; there is distance also, and the breathless air of streets where the formic swarming of India, her callous fecundity, the tyranny of her skies, and her old faith, prepare us for the House of Suddhu and the return of Imray: "The roof-tops are crammed with men, women, and children; and the air is full of undistinguishable noises. They are restless in the City of Dreadful Night; and small wonder. The marvel is that they can even breathe. If you gaze intently at the multitude you can see that they are almost as uneasy as a daylight crowd; but the tumult is subdued. Everywhere, in the strong light, you can watch sleepers turning to and fro, shifting their beds and again resettling them. In the pit-like courtyards of the houses there is the same movement. "The pitiless Moon shows it all. Shows, too, the plains outside the city, and here and there a hand's-breadth of the Ravee without the walls. Shows lastly, a splash of glittering silver on a house-top almost directly below the mosque Minar. Some poor soul has risen to throw a jar of water over his fevered body; the tinkle of the falling water strikes faintly on the ear. Two or three other men, in far-off corners of the City of Dreadful Night, follow his example, and the water flashes like heliographic signals. . . . Still the unrestful noise continues, the sigh of a great city overwhelmed with the heat, and of a people seeking in vain for rest. It is only the lower-class women who sleep on the house-tops. What must the torment be in the latticed zenanas, where a few lamps are still twinkling? There are footfalls in the court below. It is the _Muezzin_--faithful minister; but he ought to have been here an hour ago to tell the Faithful that prayer is better than sleep--the sleep that will not come to the city. "The _Muezzin_ fumbles for a moment with the door of one of the Minars, disappears awhile, and a bull-like roar--a magnificent bass thunder--tells that he has reached the top of the Minar. They must hear the cry to the banks of the shrunken Ravee itself! Even across the courtyard it is almost overpowering. The cloud drifts by and shows him outlined black against the sky, hands laid upon his ears, and broad chest heaving with the play of his lungs--'Allah ho Akbar'; then a pause while another _Muezzin_ somewhere in the direction of the Golden Temple takes up the call--'Allah ho Akbar.' Again and again; four times in all; and from the bedsteads a dozen men have risen up already.--'I bear witness that there is no God by God.'" * * * * * * "Several weeks of darkness pass after this. For the Moon has gone out. The very dogs are still, and I watch for the first light of the dawn before making my way homeward. Again the noise of shuffling feet. The morning call is about to begin, and my nightwatch is over. 'Allah ho Akbar! Allah ho Akbar!' The east grows grey, and presently saffron; the dawn wind comes up as though the _Muezzin_ had summoned it; and, as one man, the City of Dreadful Night rises from its bed and turns its face towards the dawning day. . . . "'Will the Sahib, out of his kindness, make room?' What is it? Something borne on men's shoulders comes by in the half-light, and I stand back. A woman's corpse going down to the burning-ghat, and a bystander says, 'She died at midnight from the heat.'" This passage may stand as a fair example of Mr Kipling's method of dealing with India. It is an able piece of descriptive writing. It is marked by a conscious and deliberate resolve that the "effect" shall be made. It shows us the Indian city from a high distance, as it appeared to an observer with a knack for vividly delivering his impressions. It is in no sense an inspired wrestle with the reality of India; and in that it is typical. Mr Kipling has never claimed to grasp or interpret his Indian theme. He has stood away almost ostentatiously from the material he was exploiting. It is indeed the chief merit of his Indian tales that he admits himself to be no more, so far as India is concerned, than an adventurer making the literary most of his adventure. He has at any rate the sensibility to be conscious that often he is in the position of a tripper before the Sphinx. His tales are thrilled with respect and a sense of India's power. She it is who wipes the lips of Aurelian McGoggin, who flouts the Greatest of All the Viceroys, humbles the Legal Member of the Supreme Legislative Council, and drives the lonely white intruder to illusion and death. She is indifferent to every conqueror. She feeds her multitudes like a mother; and then suddenly her bounty dries and there is famine and pestilence. Always she is a confronting Presence dwarfing to one height masters and slaves. Mr Kipling has followed this Presence as Browning's poet followed a more familiar quest: "Yet the day wears, And door succeeds door; I try the fresh fortune-- Range the wide house from the wing to the centre. Still the same chance! She goes out as I enter." It is a lawful adventure, and for some it is an absolute duty, to follow and challenge the Presence in word and deed. Englishmen who live in her shadow have sometimes for their honour to grasp and defy her; to assume that they are bound to question her authority. India for all her unknown terror has to be wrestled with for the blessing that England requires upon the labour of the English. Though the Gods of India are sacred, the devils of India, filthy and lawless, must be driven out. When India put the mark of the beast upon Fleete the powers of darkness had of necessity to be brought to heel, and this story may be read as a parable. The mark of the beast, wherever it may appear, is the Imperial concern of the English in India. But a warning enters here. Mr Kipling, celebrating Imperial India, has shown us the English at close war with the India of black magic and secret murder, of cruelty and fear. But he has balanced the account. There is another set of stories, showing us how the white man comes to disaster, who, not content with his exact and simple duty, insolently overleaps the breach between East and West--the breach which Mr Kipling himself so scrupulously observes. There was Trajego: "He knew too much in the first instance; and he saw too much in the second. He took too deep an interest in native life; but he will never do so again." His story is entitled _Beyond the Pale_, and is to be found among _Plain Tales from the Hills_. There is also _The Man Who Would Be King_. He, too, neglected the barriers. India may be ruled by the resolute and challenged by the brave; but India may never be embraced. India, who strikes out of a brazen sky; who poisons with her infected breath and is served to the death without reward; who physically cows her people with dust and fever and heat, and is possessed with devils who must be pacified; where successive civilisations have left their bones upon the soil and a hundred religions have decayed, leaving the old air heavy with exhalations--this India slowly takes shape in Mr Kipling's native stories. Her physical immensity and pressure is felt in stories like _The End of the Passage_ and _William the Conqueror_. Her sleepless tyranny, which has made men intricate and incalculable, driving them to subterranean ways of thought and fancy, rules in every page of a tale like _The Return of Imray_. Imray was an amiable Englishman who incautiously patted the head of his servant's child. Bahadur Khan speaks of it thus to Strickland of the Police: "'Walking among us, his servants, he cast his eyes upon my child who was four years old. Him he bewitched, and in ten days he died of the fever, my child!' "'What said Imray Sahib?' "'He said he was a handsome child and patted him on the head; wherefore my child died. Wherefore I killed Imray Sahib in the twilight, when he had come, and was sleeping. Wherefore I dragged him up into the roof-beams and made all fast behind him--the Heaven-born knows all things. I am the servant of the Heaven-born. . . . Be it remembered that the Sahib's shirts are correctly enumerated, and that there is an extra piece of soap in his wash-basin. My child was bewitched and I slew the wizard.'" There is here just that blend of simplicity and incalculable darkness found in all Mr Kipling's native tales. If the premises of life in India are tortuous, conduct and reasoning are as naïvely innocent as a problem in geometry. It follows that, when the devils are out of the story, no story breathes more delightfully of Eden than a story of the East. The white side of the black story of Imray Sahib is shown in _Kim_, and in all the hints and small studies for _Kim_ that preceded Mr Kipling's best of all Indian tales. But _Kim_ is something of a paradox. It is the best of all Indian tales by virtue of qualities which have little to do with India. It is an Indian book only upon its least important side. It is true that Kim himself is upon one side the most cunning of Mr Kipling's studies of the meeting of East and West; but that, for us, is not his final merit. It is the final merit of Kim to be first cousin of Mowgli, the child of the Jungle. His first claim to our delight in him is that he is the quickest of young creatures, his senses sharp and clean, of a conscience untroubled, of a spirit that rejoices in nimble work, of a will in which loyalty and courage and the peace of self-confidence are firmly rooted. In a word, he is Mowgli among men. Here, however, we approach _Kim_ merely as a tale of India--as a link artfully used by Mr Kipling to connect and pass in review the whole pageant of Imperial India as it is revealed to Western eyes--priests, peasants, soldiers, civilians, people of the plains and hills, women of the latticed palanquin and the bazaar, Hindu and Mohammedan, Afghan and Bengali. The picture of the Grand Trunk Road in Kim is an almost unsurpassed piece of descriptive writing. The diversity of the picture dazzles and bewilders us at first. Then out of all this diversity there gradually comes a conviction that fundamentally India is unimaginably simple at heart in spite of her medley of religions and conquests and races; that it is precisely this simplicity which baffles the intruder. There is the simplicity of Bahadur Khan, whose child was bewitched: _therefore_ he killed Imray Sahib and hid his body behind the ceiling cloth. There is the simplicity of the hunter of Daoud Shah, whose house was dishonoured: _therefore_ he killed his wife and went upon the trail of her seducer. There is the simplicity of men who starve and are burnt with the sun: _therefore_ they deprecate the wrath of devils and put food in the beggar's bowl. There is, above all, the simplicity of clean hunger, thirst, adventure, piety, friendliness and love that threads the whole story of the Lama and his _Chela_. _Kim_ is one of the few really beautiful stories in modern literature. The brain and fancy of thousands of readers to-day are richer and sweeter by that tale of the Master and his Friend of All the World. We would not leave him and his Wheel of Things, the River he sought in simple faith, the trust he had in the charity of men, the message that bade him seek release in Nirvana from the importunity of life quaintly warring with instinctive gestures of delight and sympathy with all that made life precious--we would not leave this exquisite story so soon, were it not that it brings forward the imperishable side of Mr Kipling's work to which we shall have shortly to return. _Kim_ bridges the gap between the Indian stories and The _Jungle Book_, which means that _Kim_ is all but the top of Mr Kipling's achievement. V SOLDIERS THREE Mr Kipling's three soldiers--Mulvaney, Ortheris and Learoyd--are a literary tradition. They are the Horatii and the Curatii, the three Musketeers; Og, Gog and Magog; Captains Fluellin, Macmorris and Jamy; Bardolph, Pistol and Nym. That Kipling's soldiers three are a literary tradition is significant of their quality and rank as part of their author's achievement. They belong rather to the efficient literary workman who wrote the Simla tales than to the inspired author of the Jungle books. Though we have run from the House of Suddhu to the barrack-yard, we have not yet lost sight of Mr Kipling, decorator and colourman in words. We shall find him conspicuously at work upon Mulvaney, Ortheris and Learoyd. Where, at first, he seems most closely to rub sleeves with the raw stuff of life we shall find him most aloof, most deliberately an artificer. Mr Kipling has seemed to the judicious, who have duly grieved, to be in his soldier tales throwing all crafty scruples to the winds in order that he may the more joyfully indulge a natural genius for ferocity. Mr Kipling's soldiers are regarded as an instance of his love for low company, of his readiness to sacrifice aesthetic beauty to vulgar truth. This is quite the wrong direction from which to approach Mr Kipling's soldier tales. Mr Kipling's ferocity on paper is not to be explained as the result of a natural delight in violence and blood. On the contrary, it is distinctively a literary ferocity--the ferocity, not of a man who has killed people, but of a man who sits down and conscientiously tries to imagine what it is like to kill people. It is essentially the same kind of ferocity in imaginative fiction as the ferocity of Nietzsche in lyrical philosophy or of Malthus in speculative politics. When Mr Kipling talks of men carved in battle to the nasty noise of beef-cutting upon the block, or of men falling over like the rattle of fire-irons in the fender and the grunt of a pole-axed ox, or of a hot encounter between two combatants wherein one of them after feeling for his opponent's eyes finds it necessary to wipe his thumb on his trousers, or of gun wheels greasy from contact with a late gunner--when Mr Kipling writes like this, we admit that his pages are disagreeable. But let us be clear as to the reason. These things are disagreeable, not because they are horrible fact, but because they are deliberate fiction. We feel that these things have been written, not from inspired impulse, but by taking careful thought. Here, clearly, is a writer who writes of war, not because he is by nature full of pugnacity, or necessarily loosed from hell to speak of horrors, but because war is a good "subject" with opportunities for effective treatment. It is incorrect to say that Mr Kipling naturally delights in savage war. He has been accused of a positive gusto for knives and bayonets, for redly dripping steel and spattered flesh. The gusto must be confessed; but it is not a gusto for the subject. It is the skilled craftsman's gusto for doing things thoroughly and effectively. Mr Kipling cannot conceal his delight in his competency to make war as nasty as Zola or Tolstoi have made it. But this has nothing to do with a delight in war. Professors have gloried in blood and iron who would probably faint away in the nice, clean operating theatre of a London hospital. Philosophers who cannot run upstairs have preached the survival of the physically fittest. The politest of Roman poets has felicitously described how the two halves of a warrior's head fell to right and left of his vertebral column. Mr Kipling's savagery is of this excessively cultivated kind. It is not atavism or a sinister resolution to stand in the way of progress and gentility. Mr Kipling's warrior tales, in fact, allow us clearly to realise that Mr Kipling's real inspiration and interest is far away from the battle-field and the barrack. They are the kind of battle story which is usually written by sedentary poets who live in the country and are fond of children. Only they are the very best of their kind. Mr Kipling's study of the professional soldier is best observed in Private Ortheris. Mulvaney is more popular, but Mulvaney in no sense belongs to Mr Kipling. He is the stage Irishman of the old Adelphi and the hero of many tales by Lever and Marryat. He is as purely a convention of the days of Mr Kipling's youth as are Mrs Hawksbee and the Simla ladies. His chief importance lies in the opportunities he gives Mr Kipling for indulging his joyful gift for pure farce. _Krishna Mulvaney_ and _My Lord the Elephant_ are farce of the first quality, whose merit liberally covers the charge that their hero is of no human importance. Ortheris is in rather a different case. He has just that air of being authentic which is needed for an anecdote or narrative. He is not a profound and original document in human nature. There is no such document in any one of Mr Kipling's books. But he stands well erect among the professional soldiers of literature. We will take one look at Private Ortheris at work: "Ortheris suddenly rose to his knees, his rifle at his shoulder, and peered across the valley in the clear afternoon light. His chin cuddled the stock, and there was a twitching of the muscles of the right cheek as he sighted; Private Stanley Ortheris was engaged on his business. A speck of white crawled up the watercourse. "'See that beggar? . . . Got 'im.' "Seven hundred yards away, and a full two hundred down the hillside, the deserter of the Aurangabadis pitched forward, rolled down a red rock, and lay very still, with his face in a clump of blue gentians, while a big raven flapped out of the pine wood to make investigation. "'That's a clean shot, little man,' said Mulvaney. "Learoyd thoughtfully watched the smoke clear away. 'Happen there was a lass tewed up wi' him, too,' said he. "Ortheris did not reply. He was staring across the valley, with the smile of the artist who looks on the completed work." This passage has been quoted against Mr Kipling as evidence of his inhuman delight in the hunting of man. If we look at it closely we shall find (1) an obvious delight in Ortheris as a professional expert who knows his business, the same delight which we find in Mr Hinchcliffe the engineer or in Dick Heldar the painter, and (2) the extremely self-conscious and cold-blooded effort of a competent author to write like a professional soldier, and (3) the intrusion of a born sentimentalist in Learoyd's little touch of feeling at the close. The War Office book of infantry training contains some very curt and calm directions for getting a "good point" in bayonet exercise. The bayonet has to be correctly driven in, left in the enemy for a reasonable time, and extracted with a minimum of effort to the practitioner and a maximum of damage to the subject. Disabling the enemy in war is a professional and technical matter, and Mr Kipling is always able to be enthusiastic when things are beginning to be technical. Whether it be sighting a deserter at seven hundred yards, painting a charge of horse, writing what Dr Johnson would describe as the "most poetical paragraph in the English language," or building a bridge over the Ganges, Mr Kipling is ready to be interested so long as the workman is competent, and the work of a highly skilled and special nature. Naturally, therefore, Mr Kipling has succeeded in getting very near to the professional view of soldiering. All Mr Kipling's soldiers take their soldiering as men of business. This was what so terribly astonished and interested Cleever when he met the Infant and heard that after he had killed a man he had felt thirsty and "wanted a smoke too"; and Cleever has been followed in his astonishment by many of Mr Kipling's literary critics. The greatest study in literature of the professional soldier--though he is infinitely more than that--is Shakespeare's Falstaff. It will be remembered that Falstaff, after having led his men where they were finely peppered, also suffered from thirst; and, being an old campaigner, he was not unprovided. The fate of Falstaff upon the British stage for many centuries--where he has actually been played, not as a professional soldier, but as an incompetent poltroon!--seems to indicate that no figure is more liable to be misunderstood than the man whose business or duty it is to fight between meals. Even Mr Kipling, in his anxiety to emphasise that a regular soldier, apart from any personal and heroic qualities he may happen to possess, is to be regarded as just a skilled practitioner whose work asks for courage and resource, fails to take soldiering with the magnificent nonchalance of Shakespeare's soldiers. Shakespeare takes the professional view for granted. But Mr Kipling does not quite do that. There is a continuously implicit protest in all Mr Kipling's soldier tales that a soldier's killing is like an editor's leader-writing or a painter's sketching from the nude--a protest which by its frequent over-emphasis shows that Mr Kipling, not having Shakespeare's gift of intuition into every kind of man, has not quite succeeded in identifying himself with the soldier's point of view. It is always present in his mind as something novel and surprising, needing insistence and emphasis. This is equally true of all Mr Kipling's essays in brutality. His ferocity is as forced as his tenderness is natural. Violence and war are clearly foreign to his unprompted imagination. Only it happens that Mr Kipling has talked with soldiers; and, like Eustace Cleever, he is prompted occasionally to spend a perversely riotous evening in their company. The literary result is far from being contemptible; but it is far from being as precious as the result of his unprompted intrusion into the country of the Brushwood Boy, into Cold Lairs and the Council Rock. The soldier tales rank not very far above the tales from Simla. Their interest is mainly the interest of watching a skilled writer consciously using all his skill to give an air of authenticity to things not vitally realised. Mulvaney is pure convention, and Ortheris, though he more individually belongs to Mr Kipling, is rather an effort than a success. We have not yet got at the heart of Mr Kipling's work. It yet remains to cross the barrier which divides some of the best journalism of our time from literature which will outlive its author. VI THE DAY'S WORK When we come to _The Day's Work_ we are getting very near to Mr Kipling at his best. We should notice at this point that in all the stories we have so far surveyed the men have mattered less than the work they do. The great majority of Mr Kipling's tales are a song in praise of good work. Almost it seems as if, in the year 1897, their author had himself realised the significance of this; for it was in that year he published the volume entitled _The Day's Work_; and it was the best volume, taking it from cover to cover, that had as yet appeared. The first and best story in _The Day's Work_ at once introduces the theme which threads all the best work of Mr Kipling. _The Bridge-Builders_ is the story of a Bridge and incidentally of the men who built it. The crown has yet to be set upon a long agony of toil and disappointment. The master builder of the Bridge has put the prime of his energy and will into its building. Now it stands all but complete, with the Ganges gathering in her upper reaches for a mighty effort to throw off her strange fetters. The Bridge before the night of the flood has passed away becomes the symbol of a wrestle between the most ancient gods and the young will of man. Mr Kipling has put the Bridge into the foreground of his picture, has made of it the really sentient figure of the tale. Here definitely he writes the first chapter of his book of steam and steel; and we begin to be aware of an enthusiasm which is lacking in many of the highly finished proofs which preceded it that Mr Kipling could write almost anything as well as almost anybody else. In _The Day's Work_ he passes into a province which he was insistently urged to occupy by right of inspiration. _The Day's Work_ brings us directly into touch with one of the most distinctive features of Mr Kipling's method. He has never been able to resist the lure of things technical. If he writes of a horse he must write as though he had bred and sold horses all his life. If he writes of a steam-engine he must write as though he had spent his life among pistons and cylinders. He writes of ships and the sea, of fox-hunting, of the punishing of Pathans, of drilling by companies and of agriculture; and he writes as one from whom no craft could hide its mysteries. This fascination of mere craft, this delight in the technicalities and dialect of the world's work, is not a mannerism. It is not a parade of omniscience or the madness of a note-book worm. It is fundamental in Mr Kipling. It is wrong to think of _Between the Devil and the Deep Sea_ or of _.007_ as the unfortunate rioting of an amateur machinist. To those who object that Mr Kipling has spoiled these stories with an absurd enthusiasm for bolts and bars it has at once to be answered that but for this very enthusiasm for bolts and bars, which the undiscerning have found so tedious, the great majority of Mr Kipling's stories would never have been written at all. A powerful turbine excites in Mr Kipling precisely the same quality of emotion which a comely landscape excited in Wordsworth; and this emotion is stamped upon all that he has written in this kind. There is a passage in _Between the Devil and the Deep Sea_ which runs: "What follows is worth consideration. The forward engine had no more work to do. Its released piston-rod, therefore, drove up fiercely, with nothing to check it, and started most of the nuts of the cylinder-cover. It came down again, the full weight of the steam behind it, and the foot of the disconnected connecting-rod, useless as the leg of a man with a sprained ankle, flung out to the right and struck the starboard, or right-hand, cast-iron supporting-column of the forward engine, cracking it clean through about six inches above the base, and wedging the upper portion outwards three inches towards the ship's side. There the connecting-rod jammed. Meantime, the after engine, being as yet unembarrassed, went on with its work, and in so doing brought round at its next revolution the crank of the forward engine, which smote the already jammed connecting-rod, bending it and therewith the piston-rod cross-head--the big cross-piece that slides up and down so smoothly." This is the method of Homer as applied to the shield of Achilles, the method of Milton in enumerating the superior fiends, the method of Walter Scott confronted with a mountain pass, the method of the sonneteer to his mistress' eyebrow. Mr Kipling's enthusiasm for these broken engines would be intolerable if it were not obviously genuine. Unless we shut our ears and admit no songs that sing of things as yet unfamiliar to the poets of blue sky and violets dim as Cytherea's eyes, we cannot possibly mistake the lyrical ecstasy of the above passage. When Mr Kipling tells how a released piston-rod drove up fiercely and started the nuts of the cylinder-cover, it is an incantation. His machines are more alive than his men and women. It is more important to know about the cast-iron supporting-column of Mr Kipling's forward engine than to know that Maisie had long hair and grey eyes, or to know what happened to any of the people whom it concerned. _.007_, which is the story of a shining and ambitious young locomotive, is ten times more vital--it calls for ten times more fellow-feeling--than the heart affairs of Private Learoyd or the distresses of the Copleigh girls at Simla. The pain that shoots through .007 when he first becomes acquainted with a hot-box is a more human and recognisable bit of consciousness than anything to be shared with the Head of the District or the Man Who Was. The psychology of the Mill Wheel in _Below the Mill Dam_ is quite obviously accurate. That Mill Wheel, unlike scores of Mr Kipling's men and women, is a creature we have met, who refuses to be forgotten. When he is dealing with men Mr Kipling celebrates not so much mankind as the skill and competency of mankind as severely applied to a given and necessary task. It follows that Mr Kipling's men at their best are most excellent machines. It follows, again, that when Mr Kipling drops the pretence that he is deeply concerned with man as man, and begins to celebrate with all his might the machine as the machine, we realise that his machine is the better man of the two. The inspiration which Mr Kipling first indulged to its full bent in _The Day's Work_ lives on through all the ensuing books. It reaches a climax in _With the Night Mail_, a post-dated vision of the air. It is one of the most remarkable stories he has written--a story produced at full pressure of the imagination which, but for its fatal prophesying, would keep his memory green for generations. The detail with which the theme is worked out is extravagant; but it is the extravagance of an inspired lover. To quarrel with its technical exuberance on the ground that Mr Kipling should have made it less like the vision of an engineer is simply to miss almost the main impulse of Mr Kipling's progress. It is true that unless we share Mr Kipling's enthusiasm for The Night Mail as a beautiful machine, for the men who governed it as skilled mechanicians, and for all the minutiae of the control and distribution of traffic by air, we are not likely to be greatly held by the story. But this is simply to say that unless we catch the passion of an author we may as well shut the author's book. This does not imply that we must love machinery in order to love Mr Kipling's enthusiasm for machinery. We have to share the author's passion; but not necessarily to dote upon its object. It is not essential to an admiration of Shakespeare's sonnets that the admirer should have been a suitor of the Dark Lady. It matters hardly at all what is the inspiration of an imaginative author. So long as he succeeds in getting into a highly fervent condition, which prompts him to write, with entire forgetfulness of himself and the reader, of things whose beauty he was born to see, it is of little moment how he happens to be kindled. We do not need to be suffering the pangs of adolescent love, or even to know the story of Fanny Brawne, to hear the immortal longing of John Keats sounding between all the lines of the great Odes: "Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal--yet do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love and she be fair." We do not need to be the enemy of the Arminians to resolve the music of Milton; and we may live all our lives in a city and yet know Wordsworth for a great poet. Shelley does not suffer because philosophic anarchy has gone out of fashion; and the poetry of the Hebrews lives for ever, though its readers have never lived in the shadow of Sinai. These mighty instances are here intended not to establish a comparison but to establish a principle. The exact source of Mr Kipling's inspiration matters not a straw. We simply know that his machinery is alive and lovely in his eyes. He communicates his passion to his reader though his readers are unable to distinguish between a piston-rod and a cylinder-cover. _The Day's Work_ throws back a clear and searching light upon some of the tales, Indian and political, which we have already passed in review. As we look back upon these stories of men and women we realise, in the light of _The Day's Work_, that machinery--the machinery of Army and Empire--enters repeatedly as a leading motive. Far from regarding Mr Kipling's passion for technical engineering as something which gets in the way of his natural genius for telling human tales, we are brought finally to realise that many of these human tales are no more than an excuse for the indulging of a passion that helplessly spins them. As literature _William the Conqueror_ and _The Head of the District_ have less to do with the politics of India than with the nuts and bolts of _The Ship That Found Herself_. The same truth applies equally to a book which has been discussed beyond all proportion to its rank among the stories of Mr Kipling. _The Light That Failed_ is often read as the high and tragical love story of Dick Heldar; but it is really nothing of the kind. It really belongs to _The Day's Work_. As the love story of Dick Heldar it is of small account. Mr Kipling thinks very little of it from that point of view. He has even allowed it, upon that side, to be deprived of all its significance in order to meet the needs of a popular actor. Mr Kipling is not the man to sell his conscience. Therefore his admirers may infer from the fact that he has sold Dick and Maisie to British and American playgoers that Dick and Maisie are not regarded by their author as of the first importance. We cannot think of Mr Kipling as allowing one screw of the ship that found herself to be misplaced. But he has cheerfully allowed his story of Dick and Maisie to be turned with a few strokes of the pen into an effective curtain for a negligible play. This does not mean that _The Light That Failed_ is not a characteristic and a fine achievement. It means that its character and fineness have nothing to do with Dick and Maisie or with any of that stuff of the story which contrives to exist behind the footlights of Sir Johnston Forbes Robertson's theatre. _The Light That Failed_ must not be read as the love story of a painter who goes blind. It must be read, with _.007_ and _The Maltese Cat_, as an enthusiastic account of the day's work of a newspaper correspondent. The really vital passages of the story have all to do with Mr Kipling's chosen text of work for work's sake. Dick's work and not Dick himself is the hero of the play. The only incident which really affects us is the scraping out of his last picture. We do not bother in the least as to whether Maisie returns to him or stays away; because we do not believe in the reality of Maisie and we cannot imagine anything she may or may not do as affecting anyone very seriously. Dick's wrestle with his picture is another matter. He and his friends may talk a great deal of nonsense about their work (nonsense which would strictly require us to condemn every good page which Mr Kipling has written), but there is no doubt whatever that the enthusiasm of men for men's work is the vital and moving principle of _The Light That Failed_. The motive of the whole story is the motive of _The Bridge-Builders_. The rest is merely accessory. _The Light That Failed_ is full of instruction for the close critic of Mr Kipling. We discover in it three out of the many levels of excellence in which he moves. First there is a cunning artificer pretending to a knowledge and admiration which he does not really possess--an artificer who tries to impose Maisie and the Red-Haired Girl upon us in the same deceiving way as the way in which he tried to impose upon us Mrs Hawksbee and the Copleigh girls. Second, there is a clever writer of soldier stories, showing us some nasty fighting at close range, with a far too elaborate pretence that he can take it all for granted as a professional combatant. Finally there is an inspired author celebrating the world's work--an author we have agreed to put in a higher rank than those other literary experts who have quite unjustifiably stolen his greener laurels. VII THE FINER GRAIN It has been Mr Kipling's habit all through his career to peg out literary claims for himself as evidence of his intention later on to work them at a profit. Thus, writing _Plain Tales from the Hills_, he includes one or two stories, such as _The Taking of Lungtungpen_ and _The Three Musketeers_, which clearly look forward to _Soldiers Three_ and all the later stories in that kind. Or, again, he looks forward in _Tods' Amendment_ and _Wee Willie Winkie_ to the time when he will write many stories, and, in a sense, whole books concerning children. _Tods' Amendment_ promises _Baa Baa Black Sheep_, and _Just So Stories_; it even promises _Stalky & Co._, which is simply the best collection of boisterous boy farces ever written. Then, again, there is _In the Rukh_, out of _Many Inventions_, which looks forward to the _Jungle Book_. Finally, there is, in _The Day's Work_, clear evidence of Mr Kipling's intention ultimately to abandon the hills and plains of India and to take literary seisin of the country and chronicles of England. The first undoubted evidence that Mr Kipling, who started with skilful tales of India, was bound in the end to turn homewards for a deeper inspiration is contained in a story from _The Day's Work_. _My Sunday at Home_ is ostensibly broad farce, of the _Brugglesmith_ variety--farce which might well call for a chapter to itself were it not that broad farce is much the same whoever the writer may be. But _My Sunday at Home_ is really less important as farce than as evidence of Mr Kipling's enthusiasm for the stillness and ancientry of the English wayside. The pages of this story distil and drip with peace. Moreover, the story is neighboured with two others, all beckoning Mr Kipling home to Burwash in Sussex. There is the Brushwood Boy, who after work comes home and finds it good--good after his work is done. There is also _An Error in the Fourth Dimension_ wherein Mr Kipling is found playing affectionately with the idea that England is quite unlike any other country. There is in England a fourth dimension which is beyond the perception, say, of an American railway king, who after much amazement and wrath concludes that the English are not a modern people and thereafter returns to his own more reasonable land. Of the miscellaneous stories in which Mr Kipling surrenders utterly to this later theme perhaps the most memorable is _An Habitation Enforced_ from _Actions and Reactions_. Here we are in quite another plane of authorship from that in which we have moved in the tales of India. There is a wide difference between _The Return of Imray_--to take one of the most skilful tales of India--and _An Habitation Enforced_. _The Return of Imray_ betrays the conscious resolution of a clever man of letters to make the most effective use of good material. But _An Habitation Enforced_ is the spontaneous gesture of pure feeling. The Indian stories are ingenious and well managed. Their point is made. Their workmanship is excellent. Atmospheres and impressions are cunningly arranged. But they very rarely succeed in carrying the reader as the reader is carried upon this later tide. The feeling of _An Habitation Enforced_, as of all the English tales, is that of the traveller returned. The value of Mr Kipling's traffics and discoveries over the seven seas is less in the record he has made of these adventures than in their having enabled him to return to England with eyes sharpened by exile, with his senses alert for that fourth dimension which does not exist for the stranger. _An Habitation Enforced_ is inspired by the nostalgia of inveterate banishment. Some part of its perfection--it is one of the few perfect short stories in the English tongue--is due to the perfect agreement of its form with the passion that informs its writing. It is the story of a homing Englishwoman, and of her restoration to the absolute earth of her forbears. In writing of this woman Mr Kipling has only had to recall his own joyful adventure in picking up the threads of a life at once familiar and mysterious, in meeting again the homely miracle of things that never change. Finally England claims her utterly--her and her children and her American husband. It was an American who bade Cloke, man of the soil and acquired retainer of the family, bring down larch-poles for a light bridge over the brook; but it was an Englishman reclaimed who needs consented to Cloke's amendment: "'But where the deuce are the larch-poles, Cloke? I told you to have them down here ready.' "'We'll get 'em down _if_ you, say so,' Cloke answered, with a thrust of the underlip they both knew. "'But I did say so. What on earth have you brought that timber-tug here for? We aren't building a railway bridge. Why, in America, half-a-dozen two-by-four bits would be ample.' "'I don't know nothin' about that,' said Cloke. 'An' I've nothin' to say against larch--_if_ you want to make a temp'ry job of it. I ain't 'ere to tell you what isn't so, sir; an' you can't say I ever come creepin' up on you, or tryin' to lead you farther in than you set out----' "A year ago George would have danced with impatience. Now he scraped a little mud off his old gaiters with his spud, and waited. "'All I say is that you can put up larch and make a temp'ry job of it; and by the time the young master's married it'll have to be done again. Now, I've brought down a couple of as sweet six-by-eight oak timbers as we've ever drawed. You put 'em in an' it's off your mind for good an' all. T'other way--I don't say it ain't right, I'm only just sayin' what I think--but t'other way, he'll no sooner be married than we'll 'ave it _all_ to do again. You've no call to regard my words, but you can't get out of _that_.' "'No,' said George, after a pause; 'I've been realising that for some time. Make it oak then; we can't get out of it.'" This story is the real beginning of Puck--to whom Mr Kipling's latest volumes are addressed. In _Puck of Pook's Hill_ Mr Kipling takes seisin of England in all times--more particularly of that trodden nook of England about Pevensey. This book is less a book of children and fairies than an English chronicle. Dan and Una are the least living of Mr Kipling's children--they are as shadowy as the little ghost who dropped a kiss upon the palm of the visitor in the mansion of _They_. The men, too, who come and go, are shadows. It is the land which abides and is real. We hum continually a variation of Shakespeare's song: "This blessèd plot, this earth, this realm, this England." _Puck of Pook's Hill_ is a final answer to those who think of the Imperial idea as loose and vast, without roots in any dear, particular soil. _Puck of Pool's Hill_ suggests in every page that England could never for its lovers be too small. We would know intimately each place where the Roman trod, where Weland came and went, where Saxon and Norman lost themselves in a common league. From this England, fluttered with memories and the most ancient magic, it is a natural step into the regions of pure fancy where Mr Kipling is happiest of all. _The Children of the Zodiac_ and _The Brushwood Boy_ are the earliest proofs that Mr Kipling flies most surely when he is least impeded by a human or material document. We have here to make a last protest against a too popular fallacy concerning the tales of Mr Kipling. Mr Kipling's passion for the concrete, which is a passion of all truly imaginative men, together with his keen delight in the work of the world, has caused him to be falsely regarded as a note-book realist of the modern type. He is assumed to be happiest when writing from direct experience without refinement or transmutation. We cannot trace this error to its source and expose the many fallacies it contains without going deeper into aesthetics than is here necessary or desirable. The simple fact that Mr Kipling's best stories are those in which his fancy is most free is answer enough to those who put him among the reporters of things as they are. It sufficiently excuses us from the long and difficult inquiry as to whether Mr Kipling's account of the people who live next door is accurate and minute, and allows us to assume, without starting a controversy which only a heavy volume could determine, that, if Mr Kipling had ever set out to describe the people who live next door, he would have simplified them out of all recognition. Mr Kipling has pretended, often with some success, that his people are really to be met with in the Royal Navy or in the Indian Civil Service. But let the reader consider for a moment whom they remember best. Is it Mowgli or is it someone who is a C.I.E.? Is it the Elephant Child, or is it Mr Grish Chunder Dé? When does Mr Kipling more successfully convey to us the impression that his people are alive and real? Is it when he is supposed to be drawing men from the life, or is it when he has set free his imagination to call up the People of the Hills or the folk in the Jungle? The grain of Mr Kipling's work is the finer, his vision is more confident and clear, the further he gets from the world immediately about him. Already we have seen how happily in India he left behind his impression of the alert tourist, his experience of the mess-room and bazaar, to enshrine in his fairy tale of _Kim_ the faith and simplicity of two of the children of the world--each, the old and the young, a child after his own fashion. _Kim_ is Mr Kipling's escape from the India which is traversed by the railway and served by the "Pioneer." It is the escape of Dan and Una into the Kingdom of Puck, and the escape of Mowgli into the Jungle. It is the escape, finally, of Mr Kipling's genius into the region where it most freely breathes. We have noted that Kim is one of the Indian doors by which we enter; but there is a more open door in the first story of _The Second Jungle Book_. It is the best of all Mr Kipling's stories, just as the _Jungle Books_ are the best of all his books. It concerns the Indian, Purun Bhagat. He was learned, supple, and deeply intimate in the affairs of the world. He had shared the counsels of princes; he had been received with honour in the clubs and societies of Europe. He was, to all appearances, a polite blend of all the talents of East and West. Then suddenly Purun Bhagat disappeared. All India understood; but of all Western people only Mr Kipling was able to follow where he walked as a holy man and a beggar into the hills. There he became St Francis of the Hills, living in a little shrine with the friendly creatures of the woods, venerated and cared for by a village on the hillside. All Mr Kipling's readers know how that story ends--how on a night of disaster there came together as of one blood the saint and his people and the wild creatures who had housed with him. It is quoted here as showing how the old piety of India beckoned Mr Kipling into the jungle as inevitably as the old loyalty of England beckoned him into a region where on a summer day we can meet without surprise a Flint Man or a Centurion of Rome. Always the bent of Mr Kipling, in his best work, is found to be away from the world. To appreciate his finer quality we must pass with him into the Rukh, or into the country beyond Policeman Day, into the mansion of lost children, or into a region where it is but a step from the Zodiac to fields under the plough. The tales of Mr Kipling which will longest survive him are not the tales where he is competently brutal and omniscient, but the tales where he instinctively flies from the necessity of giving to his vision the likeness of the modern world. We may now realise more clearly the peril which lies in the popular fallacy concerning Mr Kipling described in the first few pages of this book. So far is Mr Kipling from being an author inspired and driven to claim a share in the active life of the present, an author who unloads upon us a store of memories and experience, that he is only able to do his finest work as an unchecked and fantastic dreamer. The stories in which he imposes upon his readers the illusion that he would never have written books if he had stayed at home, that his stories are the carelessly flung reminiscences of a full life--these stories are themselves instances of the skill whereby a cunning author has been able to conceal from his generation the deep difference between artifice and inspiration. A crafty author will often employ his best phrases to describe the thing he has never really seen with the eye of genius. His manner will be most assured where his matter is the least authentic. His points will be most effectively made where there is the least necessity to make them. Mr Kipling, writing as a soldier, is more a soldier than any soldier who ever lived. Thereby the discerning reader will infer that Mr Kipling was not born to write as a soldier. He will know that Mr Kipling is not profoundly and instinctively an atavistic prophet, because his atavism is more atavistic than the atavism of the first man who ever was born. He will also realise that Mr Kipling writes so effectively about India because he ought to be writing about England and Fairyland and the Jungle. He will realise, in short, that Mr Kipling is an imaginative man of letters who has wonderful visions when he stays at home, and who needs all his craft as an expert literary artificer to persuade his readers that these visions are not seriously impaired when he ventures abroad. VIII THE POEMS Only the briefest epilogue is necessary concerning Mr Kipling's poetry. We have concluded as to his prose stories that his best work is in the pure fancy of _The Jungle Book_, and that we descend thence through his English tales and his celebration of the work of the world to clever stories of India and _Soldiers Three_. Upon each of these levels we meet with verse in the same kind, concerning which it may at once be said that at all times, except where the rule is proved by the exception, Mr Kipling's verse is less urgently inspired than his prose. The true motive which drives a poet into verse is the perception of a quality in the thing he has to say which requires for its delivery the beat and lift of a rhythm which crosses and penetrates the rhythm of sense and logic. This is true even of the poetry which seems, at first, to contradict it. Pope's _Essay on Man_, for example, which at first seems no more than a neater prose than the prose of Addison, is really not prose at all. In addition to the cool sense of what appears to be no more than a pentametric arrangement of common-places there is a rhythm which admirably conveys, independently of what is being actually said, the gentle perambulating of the eighteenth-century philosopher in the garden which Candide retired to cultivate in the best of all possible worlds. In all poetry there must be a manifest reason why prose would not have served the author's purpose equally well. Can we say this of Mr Kipling's poetry? Is Mr Kipling's poetry the result of an urgent need for a metrical utterance? A careful reading of Mr Kipling's verse, comparing it subject for subject with his prose, soon convinces us that, far from being a more direct passionate and living utterance than his prose, it is invariably more wrought and careful and elaborate. It does not suggest the poet driven into song. It suggests rather the skilful writer borrowing the manner of a poet, playing, as it were, with the poet's tools, without any urgent impulse to express himself in that particular way. He has merely added to the number of rules to be successfully observed. Of his technical success there is seldom any doubt at all. For a craftsman who can use all the intricate resources of good prose successfully to create an illusion that he is inspired in his least abandoned moments, it is child's play to use the more obvious devices of the metrician to similar effect. So far as mere formal excellence is concerned, verse is a journeyman's matter as compared with prose; and it is not at all astonishing to find that the formal part of poetry troubles Mr Kipling not at all. But we must look beyond the formality of verse to find a poet. Poetry flies higher than prose only when the poet's feeling has driven him to sing what he cannot say. Mr Kipling is a wonderful metrician; but that is not the question. The question is, Where shall we find the most immediate union of the author's feeling with the author's expression? And the answer to that will be, Not in the author's poems. Take as an example the English motive: "See you our little mill that clacks, So busy by the brook? She has ground her corn and paid her tax Ever since Domesday Book." Compare this well-wrought stanza with the prose tale _Below the Mill Dam_, or with the passage it paraphrases in the story to which it stands as motto: "The English are a bold people. His Saxons would laugh and jest with Hugh, and Hugh with them, and--this was marvellous to me--if even the meanest of them said such and such a thing was the Custom of the Manor, then straightway would Hugh and such old men of the Manor as might be near forsake everything else to debate the matter--I have seen them stop the mill with the corn half ground--and if the custom or usage were proven to be as it was said, why, that was the end of it, even though it were flat against Hugh, his wish and command." It may be said of the verse that, possibly, it is more carefully considered than the prose, more deliberate and formally more excellent. But it is certainly more remote from the passion it conveys. There is more drive in a single fragment of_ An Habitation Enforced_ than in all the songs of Puck. Similarly let us take another of Mr Kipling's themes--his delight in the world's work. Think first of _The Bridge-Builders_ and of _William the Conqueror_ and then turn to _The Bell Buoy_ (_Five Nations_) or _The White Man's Burden_ (_Five Nations_). In each case--and we repeat the result every time the experiment is made--we find that the author's motive, which lives in his prose, tends in his verse to expire. In _The White Man's Burden_ it expires outright, so that reading it, it is difficult to realise that _William the Conqueror_ has had the power so deeply to move us. This is true even where Mr Kipling's subject, which in prose has not taken him to the top of his achievement, has in verse taken him as high as in verse he is able to go. Mr Kipling's best verse is contained in _Barrack Room Ballads_; but even these do not compare in merit with _Soldiers Three_. _Barrack Room Ballads_ are the best of Mr Kipling's poetry, because in these poems rhyme and beat are essential to their inspiration. They are the exception which prove the rule that normally Mr Kipling has no right to his metre. _Barrack Room Ballads_ are robust and vivid songs of the camp, choruses which require no music to enable them to serve the purpose of any gathering where the first idea is that there should be a cheerful noise. Complete success in this kind only required Mr Kipling to fill in the skeleton of a metre which brings the right words at the right moment to the tip of the galloping tongue, and this he has admirably done. Where in _Barrack Room Ballads_ Mr Kipling has attempted to do more than fill up the feet of an irresponsible line, his verse only succeeds in defining the weakness, in a corresponding kind, of his prose. We have seen that one weakness of his soldier tales is their over emphasis of the brutal aspect of war, natural in an author of sensitive imagination attempting to identify himself with the soldier's point of view. In the prose tales this exaggeration is only occasional. In _Barrack Room Ballads_ it is more pronounced. We may take three stanzas of _Snarleyow_ as evidence that Mr Kipling's _Barrack Room Ballads_, unlike the songs of Puck and the greater mass of his verse, _really had to be metrical_; also as evidence that, in so far as they attempt to be more than a galloping chorus in dialect they are less admirable than the adventures of Ortheris and Mulvaney. The Battery was charging into action and the Driver had just been saying that a Battery was hard to pull up when it was taking the field: "'E 'adn't 'ardly spoke the word, before a droppin' shell A little right the battery an' between the sections fell; An' when the smoke 'ad cleared away, before the limber wheels, There lay the Driver's Brother with 'is 'ead between 'is 'eels. "Then sez the Driver's Brother, an' 'is words was very plain, 'For Gawd's own sake get over me, an' put me out o' pain.' They saw 'is wounds was mortial, an' they judged that it was best, So they took an' drove the limber straight across 'is back an' chest. "The Driver 'e give nothin' 'cept a little coughin' grunt, But 'e swung 'is 'orses 'andsome when it came to 'Action Front!' An' if one wheel was juicy, you may lay your Monday head 'Twas juicier for the niggers when the case began to spread." The brutality in this incident is forced in idea and expression beyond anything we find in _Soldiers Three_. It is this continuous _forcing_ of idea and expression which persists in virtually all Mr Kipling's verse except where the jingle is all that matters. We have only to recall recitations from the platform or before the curtain of some of Mr Kipling's popular poetry to realise, sometimes a little painfully, that verse is for him not a threshold of the authentic Hall of Song, but, too often, a door out of reality into the sentimental and overwrought. Comparing the soldier tales and the soldier songs it is often possible, however, to miss the author's flagging, because, as we have seen, the soldier songs are the best songs, whereas the soldier tales are not the best tales. The full extent of the inferiority of Mr Kipling's verse to Mr Kipling's prose cannot, however, be missed if we compare the finer grain of Mr Kipling's prose with the poems that deal with similar themes. Read first _The Story of Ung_ (_The Seven Seas_) and afterwards the tale of the Flint Man found upon the Downs by Dan and Una (_Rewards and Fairies_). Or, to take an even more telling instance, recall the most perfect of all Mr Kipling's tales _The Miracle of Purun Bhagat_, and afterwards read the poem that is proudly set at the head of it: "The night we felt the earth would move We stole and plucked him by the hand, Because we loved him with the love That knows but cannot understand. "And when the roaring hillside broke, And all our world fell down in rain, We saved him, we the Little Folk; But lo! he does not come again! "Mourn now, we saved him for the sake Of such poor love as wild ones may. Mourn ye! Our brother will not wake, And his own kind drive us away!" --_Dirge of the Langurs._ The poem is excellent cold craft, but leaves us precisely in the state of mind in which it found us. The story which follows it is rooted in the same idea; but, where the one is a literary exercise, the other is a supreme feat of imagination. Here, with _The Miracle of Purun Bhagat_, the story itself and not the dirge of the Langurs, we may conveniently leave the reputation of our author. Critics of a future generation may need to apologise for including within the limits of a brief monograph a specific chapter upon Mr Kipling's verse. They will not need to apologise for its brevity. A SHORT BIBLIOGRAPHY OF RUDYARD KIPLING'S PRINCIPAL WRITINGS [Separate issues of single poems or stories have not generally been included in this list. Dates of first publication of books are given; new editions only when they involve revision of text, alteration of format or transference to a different publisher.] Departmental Ditties and Other Verses (_Lahore: The Civil and Military Gazette Press_). 1886. New editions (_London: Thacker_). 1888; 1890; 1898; (_Newnes_). 1899; (_Methuen_). 1904; 1908; 1913. Plain Tales from the Hills (_Thacker_). 1888. New editions (_Macmillan_). 1890; 1899; 1907. Soldiers Three: A Collection of Stories (_Allahabad: Wheeler_). 1888. New edition (_London: Sampson Low_). 1890. The Story of the Gadsbys: a Tale without a Plot (_Allahabad: Wheeler_). N.D. [1888]. New edition (_London: Sampson Low_). 1890. In Black and White (_Allahabad: Wheeler_). N.D. [1888]. New edition (_London: Sampson Low_). 1890. Under the Deodars (_Allahabad: Wheeler_). N.D. [1888]. New edition (_London: Sampson Low_). 1890. The Phantom Rickshaw and Other Tales (_Allahabad: Wheeler_). N.D. [1888]. New edition (_London: Sampson Low_). 1890. Wee Willie Winkie and other Child Stories (_Allahabad: Wheeler_). N.D. [1888]. New edition (_London: Sampson Low_). 1890. Soldiers Three: The Story of the Gadsbys: In Black and White (_Sampson Low_). 1890. New editions (_Macmillan_). 1895; 1899; 1907. Wee Willie Winkie: Under the Deodars: The Phantom Rickshaw (_Sampson Low_). 1890. New editions (_Macmillan_). 1895; 1899; 1907. The City of Dreadful Night and Other Sketches (_Allahabad: Wheeler_). 1890. This edition was cancelled. The Smith Administration (_Allahabad: Wheeler_). 1891. This edition was cancelled. The City of Dreadful Night and Other Places (_Allahabad: Wheeler_). 1891. English edition (_Sampson Low_). 1891. These were suppressed as far as possible. Letters of Marque (_Allahabad: Wheeler_). 1891. This edition was suppressed. The Light that Failed (_Macmillan_). 1891. New editions, 1899; 1907. Life's Handicap, being Stories of Mine Own People (_Macmillan_). N.D. [1891]. New editions, 1899; 1907. Barrack Room Ballads and Other Verses (_Methuen_). 1892. New editions, 1908; 1913. The Naulahka: a Story of West and East. By Rudyard Kipling and Wolcott Balestier (_Heinemann_). 1892. New editions (_Macmillan_). 1901; 1908. Many Inventions (_Macmillan_). 1893. New editions, 1899; 1907. The Jungle Book (_Macmillan_). 1894:. New editions, 1899; 1903; 1907; 1908. The Second Jungle Book (_Macmillan_). 1895. New editions, 1899; 1908. The Seven Seas (_Methuen_). 1896. New editions, 1908; 1913. Soldier Tales (_A selection of stories from earlier volumes_) (_Macmillan_). 1896. The Novels, Tales and Poems of Rudyard Kipling (_Edition de luxe_) (_Macmillan_). 1897, etc. 27 volumes have so far been issued. "Captains Courageous." A Story of the Grand Banks (_Macmillan_). 1897. New editions, 1899; 1907. An Almanac of Twelve Sports for 1898. By William Nicholson. Words by Rudyard Kipling (_Heinemann_). 1897. The Day's Work (_Macmillan_). 1898. New editions, 1899; 1908. A Fleet in Being: Notes of Two Trips with the Channel Squadron (_Macmillan_). 1898. Stalky & Co. (_Macmillan_). 1899. New edition, 1908. From Sea to Sea (_Macmillan_). 2 volumes. 1900. New edition, 1908. The volumes contain also Letters of Marque, The City of Dreadful Night and The Smith Administration. The Science of Rebellion [Pamphlet] (_Vacher_). 1901. Kim (_Macmillan_). 1901. New edition, 1908. Just-So Stories, for Little Children (_Macmillan_). 1902. New editions, 1903; 1908; 1913. The Five Nations (_Methuen_). 1903. New editions, 1908; 1913. Traffics and Discoveries (_Macmillan_). 1904. New edition, 1908. Puck of Pook's Hill (_Macmillan_). 1906. New edition, 1908. A Pocket Edition of Mr Kipling's Works was issued during 1907 and 1908, the verse by Methuen & Co., the prose by Macmillan & Co. After 1908 the works issued by Macmillan & Co. appear simultaneously in the ordinary library edition, the pocket edition and the edition de luxe. Doctors: an Address delivered at the Middlesex Hospital (_Macmillan_). 1908. Actions and Reactions (_Macmillan_). 1909. The Dead King. [A Poem] (_Hodder & Stoughton_). 1910. Rewards and Fairies (_Macmillan_). 1910. A School History of England, By C. R. L. Fletcher and Rudyard Kipling (_Clarendon Press_). 1911. The Collected Verse of Rudyard Kipling (_Hodder & Stoughton_). 1912. This edition does not contain the Departmental Ditties nor the Rhymes for Nicholson's Almanac. Simples Contes des Collines (_Nelson_). 1912. The Bombay Edition of the Works in Verse and Prose of Rudyard Kipling. 23 volumes (_Macmillan_). 1913-1915. Songs from Books (_Macmillan_). 1913. The Service Edition of some of the works of Rudyard Kipling: Verse, 8 volumes (_Methuen_); prose, 26 volumes (_Macmillan_). 1914-1915. The New Army in Training (_Macmillan_). 1915. AMERICAN BIBLIOGRAPHY [Some of Mr Kipling's earlier stories and poems, as well as certain later poems that are non-copyright in America, have been issued in an almost bewildering variety of arrangement and by many different publishers. Full enumeration of these variants is not attempted in this bibliography.] Plain Tales from the Hills (_Lovell_). N.D. [1890]. (_Macmillan_). 1890. The Story of the Gadsbys (_Lovell_). 1890. (_Munro_). 1890. The Courting of Dinah Shadd and Other Stories (_Harper_). 1890. Indian Tales (_Lovell_). 1890. The Phantom Rickshaw and Other Tales (_U.S. Book Co._). N.D. [1890]. (_Rand, M'Nally & Co._). 1890. Soldiers Three and Other Stories (_Munro_). N.D. [1890]. American Notes, by Rudyard Kipling, and The Bottle Imp, by Robert Louis Stevenson (_Ivers_). 1891. New edition (_Brown_). 1899. Mine Own People: with Introduction by Henry James (_Munro_). N.D. [1891]. (_U.S. Book Co._). 1891. Under the Deodars (_U.S. Book Co._). 1891. The Story of the Gadsbys; Under the Deodars (_U.S. Book Co._). 1891. Wee Willie Winkie and Other Stories (_Rand_). 1891. The Light that Failed (_Rand_). 1891. (_Munro_). N.D. [1891]. (_U.S. Book Co._). 1891. Life's Handicap, being Stories of Mine Own People (_Macmillan_). 1891. Ballads and Barrack Room Ballads (_Macmillan_). 1892. New edition, 1893. Barrack Room Ballads and Other Verses (_U. S. Book Co._). N.D. [1892]. The Naulahka: a Story of West and East. By Rudyard Kipling and Wolcott Balestier. (_Rand_). 1892. New edition (_Macmillan_). 1895. Many Inventions (_Appleton_). 1893. The Jungle Book (_Century Co._). 1894. Prose Tales. New uniform edition. 6 volumes (_Macmillan_). 1895. Out of India: Things I saw and failed to see, in certain days and nights at Jeypore and elsewhere (_Dillingham_). 1895. [Included in From Sea to Sea, 1899, under the title, Letters of Marque.] The Second Jungle Book (_Century Co._). 1895. The Seven Seas (_Appleton_). 1896. Soldier Stories (_Macmillan_). 1896. The "Outward Bound" Edition of Rudyard Kipling's Works (_Scribner_). 1897, etc. "Captains Courageous." A Story of the Grand Banks (_Century Co._). 1897. An Almanac of Twelve Sports. By William Nicholson. Words by Rudyard Kipling (_Russell_). 1897. Collectanea: Reprinted Verses (_Mansfield_). 1898. [Contains: The Explanation, Mandalay, Recessional, The Rhyme of the Three Captains, The Vampire.] The Day's Work (_Doubleday_). 1898. The City of Dreadful Night (_Grosset_). 1899. Letters of Marque (_Caldwell_). 1899. From Sea to Sea: Letters of Travel (_Doubleday_). 1899. Departmental Ditties and Ballads and Barrack Room Ballads (_Doubleday_). 1899. [The first authorised American edition.] Stalky & Co. (_Doubleday_). 1899. Kim (_Doubleday_). 1901. Just-So Stories for Little Children (_Doubleday_). 1902. The Five Nations (_Doubleday_). 1903. Traffics and Discoveries (_Doubleday_). 1904. Puck of Pook's Hill (_Doubleday_). 1906. Collected Verse (_Doubleday_). 1907. Actions and Reactions (_Doubleday_). 1909. Abaft the Funnel (_Dodge_). 1909. Rewards and Fairies (_Doubleday_). 1910. Songs from Books (_Doubleday_). 1912. A School History of England. By C. R. L. Fletcher and Rudyard Kipling (_Oxford University Press_). 1912. The Seven Seas Edition of the Works in Verse and Prose of Rudyard Kipling (_Doubleday_). 23 volumes. 1913. INDEX _Baa Baa Black Sheep_, 91 Barker, Granville, 16 _Barrack Room Ballads_, 110, 111 _Bell Buoy, The_, 109 _Below the Mill Dam_, 82, 108 _Between the Devil and the Deep Sea_, 79, 80 _Beyond the Pole_, 60 Birth, 14 _Bridge-Builders, The_, 77, 89, 109 _Brugglesmith_, 92 _Brushwood Boy, The_, 98 Brutality, 113 _Candide_, 106 _Children of the Zodiac, The_, 98 "Civil and Military Gazette, The," 14 Cleever, 7-10, 73 Cloke, 95 _Day's Work, The_, 23, 46, 77, 86, 87, 92 _End of the Passage, The_, 60 England, feeling for, 93, 97 _Error in the Fourth Dimension, An_, 93 Falstaff, 74 _Habitation Enforced, An_, 93, 94, 109 Hardy, Thomas, 16 Hawksbee, Mrs, 24, 25, 28 Hazlitt, 10 _Head of the District, The_, 87 Imperialism, 97 India, influence of, 38, 45 Indian Stories--Classification, 19 _In the Rukh_, 92 _Jungle Book, The_, 17, 65, 92 _Just-So Stories_, 91 Keats, John, 85 _Kim_, 19, 22, 62-64, 100, 101 Kipling, J. Lockwood, 14 _Krishna Mulvaney_, 70 Lahore, 53 Learoyd, 66 _Life's Handicap_, 47, 53 _Light that Failed, The_, 13, 87, 88, 89 Machinery, 84, 86 Maisie, 89 _Maltese Cat, The_, 88 Malthus, 67 _Man Who Would be King, The_, 60 _Many Inventions_, 17 _Marrying of Anne Leete, The_, 16 Metre, 107 Milton, 85 _Miracle of Purun Bhagat, The_, 114 Mowgli, 100 Mulvaney, 66, 70 _My Lord the Elephant_, 70 _My Sunday at Home_, 92 Nietzsche, 67 Ortheris, 66, 70 _Phantom Rickshaw, The_, 29 "Pioneer, The," 14 _Plain Tales from the Hills_, 15, 17, 24, 29, 46, 60 Politics, 33 Pope, 106 _Puck of Pook's Hill_, 97, 98 Purun Bhagat, 101 Realism, 98 Red-Haired Girl, The, 89 _Return of Imray, The_, 61, 93 _Second Jungle Book, The_, 101 Shakespeare, 74 Shelley, 85 _Ship that Found Herself, The_, 87 Simla, 24, 26 Simplicity, 46, 47 _Snarleyow_, 111 _Soldiers Three_, 110 _Stalky & Co._, 91 Sussex, 92 _Taking of Lungtungpen, The_, 91 Technical enthusiasm, 79 _They_, 97 _Three Musketeers, The_, 91 _Tods' Amendment_, 41, 91 Trajego, 59 Verse and Prose, 107, 111 War, 68 _Wee Willie Winkie_, 91 _White Man's Burden, The_, 109, 110 _William the Conqueror_, 47, 60, 86, 109 _With the Night Mail_, 83 Wordsworth, 85 _.007_, 79, 82, 88 
11247	----	Proofreading Team. The Exploits of BRIGADIER GERARD SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE _This book is published by arrangement with the Estate of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle_ 1896 BY SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_ _The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes_ _The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes_ _The Return of Sherlock Holmes_ _His Last Bow_ _The Hound of the Baskervilles_ _The Sign of Four_ _The Valley of Fear_ _Sir Nigel_ _The White Company_ _Micah Clarke_ _The Refugees_ _Rodney Stone_ _Uncle Bernac_ _Adventures of Gerard_ _The Exploits of Brigadier Gerard_ _The Lost World_ _The Tragedy of the Korosko_ OMNIBUS VOLUMES _Great Stories_ _The Conan Doyle Stories_ _The Sherlock Holmes Short Stories_ _The Sherlock Holmes Long Stories_ _The Historical Romances_ _The Complete Professor Challenger Stories_ _The Complete Napoleonic Stories_ * * * * * _The Life of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle_ by John Dickson Carr * * * * * CONTENTS 1. How the Brigadier came to the Castle of Gloom 2. How the Brigadier slew the brothers of Ajaccio 3. How the Brigadier held the King 4. How the King held the Brigadier 5. How the Brigadier took the field against the Marshal Millefleurs 6. How the Brigadier played for a kingdom 7. How the Brigadier won his Medal 8. How the Brigadier was tempted by the Devil 1. HOW THE BRIGADIER CAME TO THE CASTLE OF GLOOM[A] You do very well, my friends, to treat me with some little reverence, for in honouring me you are honouring both France and yourselves. It is not merely an old, grey-moustached officer whom you see eating his omelette or draining his glass, but it is a fragment of history. In me you see one of the last of those wonderful men, the men who were veterans when they were yet boys, who learned to use a sword earlier than a razor, and who during a hundred battles had never once let the enemy see the colour of their knapsacks. For twenty years we were teaching Europe how to fight, and even when they had learned their lesson it was only the thermometer, and never the bayonet, which could break the Grand Army down. Berlin, Naples, Vienna, Madrid, Lisbon, Moscow--we stabled our horses in them all. Yes, my friends, I say again that you do well to send your children to me with flowers, for these ears have heard the trumpet calls of France, and these eyes have seen her standards in lands where they may never be seen again. Even now, when I doze in my arm-chair, I can see those great warriors stream before me--the green-jacketed chasseurs, the giant cuirassiers, Poniatowsky's lancers, the white-mantled dragoons, the nodding bearskins of the horse grenadiers. And then there comes the thick, low rattle of the drums, and through wreaths of dust and smoke I see the line of high bonnets, the row of brown faces, the swing and toss of the long, red plumes amid the sloping lines of steel. And there rides Ney with his red head, and Lefebvre with his bulldog jaw, and Lannes with his Gascon swagger; and then amidst the gleam of brass and the flaunting feathers I catch a glimpse of _him_, the man with the pale smile, the rounded shoulders, and the far-off eyes. There is an end of my sleep, my friends, for up I spring from my chair, with a cracked voice calling and a silly hand outstretched, so that Madame Titaux has one more laugh at the old fellow who lives among the shadows. Although I was a full Chief of Brigade when the wars came to an end, and had every hope of soon being made a General of Division, it is still rather to my earlier days that I turn when I wish to talk of the glories and the trials of a soldier's life. For you will understand that when an officer has so many men and horses under him, he has his mind full of recruits and remounts, fodder and farriers, and quarters, so that even when he is not in the face of the enemy, life is a very serious matter for him. But when he is only a lieutenant or a captain he has nothing heavier than his epaulettes upon his shoulders, so that he can clink his spurs and swing his dolman, drain his glass and kiss his girl, thinking of nothing save of enjoying a gallant life. That is the time when he is likely to have adventures, and it is often to that time that I shall turn in the stories which I may have for you. So it will be tonight when I tell you of my visit to the Castle of Gloom; of the strange mission of Sub-Lieutenant Duroc, and of the horrible affair of the man who was once known as Jean Carabin, and afterwards as the Baron Straubenthal. You must know, then, that in the February of 1807, immediately after the taking of Danzig, Major Legendre and I were commissioned to bring four hundred remounts from Prussia into Eastern Poland. The hard weather, and especially the great battle at Eylau, had killed so many of the horses that there was some danger of our beautiful Tenth of Hussars becoming a battalion of light infantry. We knew, therefore, both the Major and I, that we should be very welcome at the front. We did not advance very rapidly, however, for the snow was deep, the roads detestable, and we had but twenty returning invalids to assist us. Besides, it is impossible, when you have a daily change of forage, and sometimes none at all, to move horses faster than a walk. I am aware that in the story-books the cavalry whirls past at the maddest of gallops; but for my own part, after twelve campaigns, I should be very satisfied to know that my brigade could always walk upon the march and trot in the presence of the enemy. This I say of the hussars and chasseurs, mark you, so that it is far more the case with cuirassiers or dragoons. For myself I am fond of horses, and to have four hundred of them, of every age and shade and character, all under my own hands, was a very great pleasure to me. They were from Pomerania for the most part, though some were from Normandy and some from Alsace, and it amused us to notice that they differed in character as much as the people of those provinces. We observed also, what I have often proved since, that the nature of a horse can be told by his colour, from the coquettish light bay, full of fancies and nerves, to the hardy chestnut, and from the docile roan to the pig-headed rusty-black. All this has nothing in the world to do with my story, but how is an officer of cavalry to get on with his tale when he finds four hundred horses waiting for him at the outset? It is my habit, you see, to talk of that which interests myself and so I hope that I may interest you. We crossed the Vistula opposite Marienwerder, and had got as far as Riesenberg, when Major Legendre came into my room in the post-house with an open paper in his hand. 'You are to leave me,' said he, with despair upon his face. It was no very great grief to me to do that, for he was, if I may say so, hardly worthy to have such a subaltern. I saluted, however, in silence. 'It is an order from General Lasalle,' he continued; 'you are to proceed to Rossel instantly, and to report yourself at the headquarters of the regiment.' No message could have pleased me better. I was already very well thought of by my superior officers. It was evident to me, therefore, that this sudden order meant that the regiment was about to see service once more, and that Lasalle understood how incomplete my squadron would be without me. It is true that it came at an inconvenient moment, for the keeper of the post-house had a daughter--one of those ivory-skinned, black-haired Polish girls--with whom I had hoped to have some further talk. Still, it is not for the pawn to argue when the fingers of the player move him from the square; so down I went, saddled my big black charger, Rataplan, and set off instantly upon my lonely journey. My word, it was a treat for those poor Poles and Jews, who have so little to brighten their dull lives, to see such a picture as that before their doors! The frosty morning air made Rataplan's great black limbs and the beautiful curves of his back and sides gleam and shimmer with every gambade. As for me, the rattle of hoofs upon a road, and the jingle of bridle chains which comes with every toss of a saucy head, would even now set my blood dancing through my veins. You may think, then, how I carried myself in my five-and-twentieth year--I, Etienne Gerard, the picked horseman and surest blade in the ten regiments of hussars. Blue was our colour in the Tenth--a sky-blue dolman and pelisse with a scarlet front--and it was said of us in the army that we could set a whole population running, the women towards us, and the men away. There were bright eyes in the Riesenberg windows that morning which seemed to beg me to tarry; but what can a soldier do, save to kiss his hand and shake his bridle as he rides upon his way? It was a bleak season to ride through the poorest and ugliest country in Europe, but there was a cloudless sky above, and a bright, cold sun, which shimmered on the huge snowfields. My breath reeked into the frosty air, and Rataplan sent up two feathers of steam from his nostrils, while the icicles drooped from the side-irons of his bit. I let him trot to warm his limbs, while for my own part I had too much to think of to give much heed to the cold. To north and south stretched the great plains, mottled over with dark clumps of fir and lighter patches of larch. A few cottages peeped out here and there, but it was only three months since the Grand Army had passed that way, and you know what that meant to a country. The Poles were our friends, it was true, but out of a hundred thousand men, only the Guard had waggons, and the rest had to live as best they might. It did not surprise me, therefore, to see no signs of cattle and no smoke from the silent houses. A weal had been left across the country where the great host had passed, and it was said that even the rats were starved wherever the Emperor had led his men. By midday I had got as far as the village of Saalfeldt, but as I was on the direct road for Osterode, where the Emperor was wintering, and also for the main camp of the seven divisions of infantry, the highway was choked with carriages and carts. What with artillery caissons and waggons and couriers, and the ever-thickening stream of recruits and stragglers, it seemed to me that it would be a very long time before I should join my comrades. The plains, however, were five feet deep in snow, so there was nothing for it but to plod upon our way. It was with joy, therefore, that I found a second road which branched away from the other, trending through a fir-wood towards the north. There was a small auberge at the cross-roads, and a patrol of the Third Hussars of Conflans--the very regiment of which I was afterwards colonel--were mounting their horses at the door. On the steps stood their officer, a slight, pale young man, who looked more like a young priest from a seminary than a leader of the devil-may-care rascals before him. 'Good-day, sir,' said he, seeing that I pulled up my horse. 'Good-day,' I answered. 'I am Lieutenant Etienne Gerard, of the Tenth.' I could see by his face that he had heard of me. Everybody had heard of me since my duel with the six fencing masters. My manner, however, served to put him at his ease with me. 'I am Sub-Lieutenant Duroc, of the Third,' said he. 'Newly joined?' I asked. 'Last week.' I had thought as much, from his white face and from the way in which he let his men lounge upon their horses. It was not so long, however, since I had learned myself what it was like when a schoolboy has to give orders to veteran troopers. It made me blush, I remember, to shout abrupt commands to men who had seen more battles than I had years, and it would have come more natural for me to say, 'With your permission, we shall now wheel into line,' or, 'If you think it best, we shall trot.' I did not think the less of the lad, therefore, when I observed that his men were somewhat out of hand, but I gave them a glance which stiffened them in their saddles. 'May I ask, monsieur, whether you are going by this northern road?' I asked. 'My orders are to patrol it as far as Arensdorf,' said he. 'Then I will, with your permission, ride so far with you,' said I. 'It is very clear that the longer way will be the faster.' So it proved, for this road led away from the army into a country which was given over to Cossacks and marauders, and it was as bare as the other was crowded. Duroc and I rode in front, with our six troopers clattering in the rear. He was a good boy, this Duroc, with his head full of the nonsense that they teach at St Cyr, knowing more about Alexander and Pompey than how to mix a horse's fodder or care for a horse's feet. Still, he was, as I have said, a good boy, unspoiled as yet by the camp. It pleased me to hear him prattle away about his sister Marie and about his mother in Amiens. Presently we found ourselves at the village of Hayenau. Duroc rode up to the post-house and asked to see the master. 'Can you tell me,' said he, 'whether the man who calls himself the Baron Straubenthal lives in these parts?' The postmaster shook his head, and we rode upon our way. I took no notice of this, but when, at the next village, my comrade repeated the same question, with the same result, I could not help asking him who this Baron Straubenthal might be. 'He is a man,' said Duroc, with a sudden flush upon his boyish face, 'to whom I have a very important message to convey.' Well, this was not satisfactory, but there was something in my companion's manner which told me that any further questioning would be distasteful to him. I said nothing more, therefore, but Duroc would still ask every peasant whom we met whether he could give him any news of the Baron Straubenthal. For my own part I was endeavouring, as an officer of light cavalry should, to form an idea of the lay of the country, to note the course of the streams, and to mark the places where there should be fords. Every step was taking us farther from the camp round the flanks of which we were travelling. Far to the south a few plumes of grey smoke in the frosty air marked the position of some of our outposts. To the north, however, there was nothing between ourselves and the Russian winter quarters. Twice on the extreme horizon I caught a glimpse of the glitter of steel, and pointed it out to my companion. It was too distant for us to tell whence it came, but we had little doubt that it was from the lance-heads of marauding Cossacks. The sun was just setting when we rode over a low hill and saw a small village upon our right, and on our left a high black castle, which jutted out from amongst the pine-woods. A farmer with his cart was approaching us--a matted-haired, downcast fellow, in a sheepskin jacket. 'What village is this?' asked Duroc. 'It is Arensdorf,' he answered, in his barbarous German dialect. 'Then here I am to stay the night,' said my young companion. Then, turning to the farmer, he asked his eternal question, 'Can you tell me where the Baron Straubenthal lives?' 'Why, it is he who owns the Castle of Gloom,' said the farmer, pointing to the dark turrets over the distant fir forest. Duroc gave a shout like the sportsman who sees his game rising in front of him. The lad seemed to have gone off his head--his eyes shining, his face deathly white, and such a grim set about his mouth as made the farmer shrink away from him. I can see him now, leaning forward on his brown horse, with his eager gaze fixed upon the great black tower. 'Why do you call it the Castle of Gloom?' I asked. 'Well, it's the name it bears upon the countryside,' said the farmer. 'By all accounts there have been some black doings up yonder. It's not for nothing that the wickedest man in Poland has been living there these fourteen years past.' 'A Polish nobleman?' I asked. 'Nay, we breed no such men in Poland,' he answered. 'A Frenchman, then?' cried Duroc. 'They say that he came from France.' 'And with red hair?' 'As red as a fox.' 'Yes, yes, it is my man,' cried my companion, quivering all over in his excitement. 'It is the hand of Providence which has led me here. Who can say that there is not justice in this world? Come, Monsieur Gerard, for I must see the men safely quartered before I can attend to this private matter.' He spurred on his horse, and ten minutes later we were at the door of the inn of Arensdorf, where his men were to find their quarters for the night. Well, all this was no affair of mine, and I could not imagine what the meaning of it might be. Rossel was still far off, but I determined to ride on for a few hours and take my chance of some wayside barn in which I could find shelter for Rataplan and myself. I had mounted my horse, therefore, after tossing off a cup of wine, when young Duroc came running out of the door and laid his hand upon my knee. 'Monsieur Gerard,' he panted, 'I beg of you not to abandon me like this!' 'My good sir,' said I, 'if you would tell me what is the matter and what you would wish me to do, I should be better able to tell you if I could be of any assistance to you.' 'You can be of the very greatest,' he cried. 'Indeed, from all that I have heard of you, Monsieur Gerard, you are the one man whom I should wish to have by my side tonight.' 'You forget that I am riding to join my regiment.' 'You cannot, in any case, reach it tonight. Tomorrow will bring you to Rossel. By staying with me you will confer the very greatest kindness upon me, and you will aid me in a matter which concerns my own honour and the honour of my family. I am compelled, however, to confess to you that some personal danger may possibly be involved.' It was a crafty thing for him to say. Of course, I sprang from Rataplan's back and ordered the groom to lead him back into the stables. 'Come into the inn,' said I, 'and let me know exactly what it is that you wish me to do.' He led the way into a sitting-room, and fastened the door lest we should be interrupted. He was a well-grown lad, and as he stood in the glare of the lamp, with the light beating upon his earnest face and upon his uniform of silver grey, which suited him to a marvel, I felt my heart warm towards him. Without going so far as to say that he carried himself as I had done at his age, there was at least similarity enough to make me feel in sympathy with him. 'I can explain it all in a few words,' said he. 'If I have not already satisfied your very natural curiosity, it is because the subject is so painful a one to me that I can hardly bring myself to allude to it. I cannot, however, ask for your assistance without explaining to you exactly how the matter lies. 'You must know, then, that my father was the well-known banker, Christophe Duroc, who was murdered by the people during the September massacres. As you are aware, the mob took possession of the prisons, chose three so-called judges to pass sentence upon the unhappy aristocrats, and then tore them to pieces when they were passed out into the street. My father had been a benefactor of the poor all his life. There were many to plead for him. He had the fever, too, and was carried in, half-dead, upon a blanket. Two of the judges were in favour of acquitting him; the third, a young Jacobin, whose huge body and brutal mind had made him a leader among these wretches, dragged him, with his own hands, from the litter, kicked him again and again with his heavy boots, and hurled him out of the door, where in an instant he was torn limb from limb under circumstances which are too horrible for me to describe. This, as you perceive, was murder, even under their own unlawful laws, for two of their own judges had pronounced in my father's favour. 'Well, when the days of order came back again, my elder brother began to make inquiries about this man. I was only a child then, but it was a family matter, and it was discussed in my presence. The fellow's name was Carabin. He was one of Sansterre's Guard, and a noted duellist. A foreign lady named the Baroness Straubenthal having been dragged before the Jacobins, he had gained her liberty for her on the promise that she with her money and estates should be his. He had married her, taken her name and title, and escaped out of France at the time of the fall of Robespierre. What had become of him we had no means of learning. 'You will think, doubtless, that it would be easy for us to find him, since we had both his name and his title. You must remember, however, that the Revolution left us without money, and that without money such a search is very difficult. Then came the Empire, and it became more difficult still, for, as you are aware, the Emperor considered that the 18th Brumaire brought all accounts to a settlement, and that on that day a veil had been drawn across the past. None the less, we kept our own family story and our own family plans. 'My brother joined the army, and passed with it through all Southern Europe, asking everywhere for the Baron Straubenthal. Last October he was killed at Jena, with his mission still unfulfilled. Then it became my turn, and I have the good fortune to hear of the very man of whom I am in search at one of the first Polish villages which I have to visit, and within a fortnight of joining my regiment. And then, to make the matter even better, I find myself in the company of one whose name is never mentioned throughout the army save in connection with some daring and generous deed.' This was all very well, and I listened to it with the greatest interest, but I was none the clearer as to what young Duroc wished me to do. 'How can I be of service to you?' I asked. 'By coming up with me.' 'To the Castle?' 'Precisely.' 'When?' 'At once.' 'But what do you intend to do?' 'I shall know what to do. But I wish you to be with me, all the same.' Well, it was never in my nature to refuse an adventure, and, besides, I had every sympathy with the lad's feelings. It is very well to forgive one's enemies, but one wishes to give them something to forgive also. I held out my hand to him, therefore. 'I must be on my way for Rossel tomorrow morning, but tonight I am yours,' said I. We left our troopers in snug quarters, and, as it was but a mile to the Castle, we did not disturb our horses. To tell the truth, I hate to see a cavalry man walk, and I hold that just as he is the most gallant thing upon earth when he has his saddle-flaps between his knees, so he is the most clumsy when he has to loop up his sabre and his sabre-tasche in one hand and turn in his toes for fear of catching the rowels of his spurs. Still, Duroc and I were of the age when one can carry things off, and I dare swear that no woman at least would have quarrelled with the appearance of the two young hussars, one in blue and one in grey, who set out that night from the Arensdorf post-house. We both carried our swords, and for my own part I slipped a pistol from my holster into the inside of my pelisse, for it seemed to me that there might be some wild work before us. The track which led to the Castle wound through a pitch-black fir-wood, where we could see nothing save the ragged patch of stars above our heads. Presently, however, it opened up, and there was the Castle right in front of us, about as far as a carbine would carry. It was a huge, uncouth place, and bore every mark of being exceedingly old, with turrets at every corner, and a square keep on the side which was nearest to us. In all its great shadow there was no sign of light save from a single window, and no sound came from it. To me there was something awful in its size and its silence, which corresponded so well with its sinister name. My companion pressed on eagerly, and I followed him along the ill-kept path which led to the gate. There was no bell or knocker upon the great iron-studded door, and it was only by pounding with the hilts of our sabres that we could attract attention. A thin, hawk-faced man, with a beard up to his temples, opened it at last. He carried a lantern in one hand, and in the other a chain which held an enormous black hound. His manner at the first moment was threatening, but the sight of our uniforms and of our faces turned it into one of sulky reserve. 'The Baron Straubenthal does not receive visitors at so late an hour,' said he, speaking in very excellent French. 'You can inform Baron Straubenthal that I have come eight hundred leagues to see him, and that I will not leave until I have done so,' said my companion. I could not myself have said it with a better voice and manner. The fellow took a sidelong look at us, and tugged at his black beard in his perplexity. 'To tell the truth, gentlemen,' said he, 'the Baron has a cup or two of wine in him at this hour, and you would certainly find him a more entertaining companion if you were to come again in the morning.' He had opened the door a little wider as he spoke, and I saw by the light of the lamp in the hall behind him that three other rough fellows were standing there, one of whom held another of these monstrous hounds. Duroc must have seen it also, but it made no difference to his resolution. 'Enough talk,' said he, pushing the man to one side. 'It is with your master that I have to deal.' The fellows in the hall made way for him as he strode in among them, so great is the power of one man who knows what he wants over several who are not sure of themselves. My companion tapped one of them upon the shoulder with as much assurance as though he owned him. 'Show me to the Baron,' said he. The man shrugged his shoulders, and answered something in Polish. The fellow with the beard, who had shut and barred the front door, appeared to be the only one among them who could speak French. 'Well, you shall have your way,' said he, with a sinister smile. 'You shall see the Baron. And perhaps, before you have finished, you will wish that you had taken my advice.' We followed him down the hall, which was stone-flagged and very spacious, with skins scattered upon the floor, and the heads of wild beasts upon the walls. At the farther end he threw open a door, and we entered. It was a small room, scantily furnished, with the same marks of neglect and decay which met us at every turn. The walls were hung with discoloured tapestry, which had come loose at one corner, so as to expose the rough stonework behind. A second door, hung with a curtain, faced us upon the other side. Between lay a square table, strewn with dirty dishes and the sordid remains of a meal. Several bottles were scattered over it. At the head of it, and facing us, there sat a huge man with a lion-like head and a great shock of orange-coloured hair. His beard was of the same glaring hue; matted and tangled and coarse as a horse's mane. I have seen some strange faces in my time, but never one more brutal than that, with its small, vicious, blue eyes, its white, crumpled cheeks, and the thick, hanging lip which protruded over his monstrous beard. His head swayed about on his shoulders, and he looked at us with the vague, dim gaze of a drunken man. Yet he was not so drunk but that our uniforms carried their message to him. 'Well, my brave boys,' he hiccoughed. 'What is the latest news from Paris, eh? You're going to free Poland, I hear, and have meantime all become slaves yourselves--slaves to a little aristocrat with his grey coat and his three-cornered hat. No more citizens either, I am told, and nothing but monsieur and madame. My faith, some more heads will have to roll into the sawdust basket some of these mornings.' Duroc advanced in silence, and stood by the ruffian's side. 'Jean Carabin,' said he. The Baron started, and the film of drunkenness seemed to be clearing from his eyes. 'Jean Carabin,' said Duroc, once more. He sat up and grasped the arms of his chair. 'What do you mean by repeating that name, young man?' he asked. 'Jean Carabin, you are a man whom I have long wished to meet.' 'Supposing that I once had such a name, how can it concern you, since you must have been a child when I bore it?' 'My name is Duroc.' 'Not the son of----?' 'The son of the man you murdered.' The Baron tried to laugh, but there was terror in his eyes. 'We must let bygones be bygones, young man,' he cried. 'It was our life or theirs in those days: the aristocrats or the people. Your father was of the Gironde. He fell. I was of the mountain. Most of my comrades fell. It was all the fortune of war. We must forget all this and learn to know each other better, you and I.' He held out a red, twitching hand as he spoke. 'Enough,' said young Duroc. 'If I were to pass my sabre through you as you sit in that chair, I should do what is just and right. I dishonour my blade by crossing it with yours. And yet you are a Frenchman, and have even held a commission under the same flag as myself. Rise, then, and defend yourself!' 'Tut, tut!' cried the Baron. 'It is all very well for you young bloods--' Duroc's patience could stand no more. He swung his open hand into the centre of the great orange beard. I saw a lip fringed with blood, and two glaring blue eyes above it. 'You shall die for that blow.' 'That is better,' said Duroc. 'My sabre!' cried the other. 'I will not keep you waiting, I promise you!' and he hurried from the room. I have said that there was a second door covered with a curtain. Hardly had the Baron vanished when there ran from behind it a woman, young and beautiful. So swiftly and noiselessly did she move that she was between us in an instant, and it was only the shaking curtains which told us whence she had come. 'I have seen it all,' she cried. 'Oh, sir, you have carried yourself splendidly.' She stooped to my companion's hand, and kissed it again and again ere he could disengage it from her grasp. 'Nay, madame, why should you kiss my hand?' he cried. 'Because it is the hand which struck him on his vile, lying mouth. Because it may be the hand which will avenge my mother. I am his step-daughter. The woman whose heart he broke was my mother. I loathe him, I fear him. Ah, there is his step!' In an instant she had vanished as suddenly as she had come. A moment later, the Baron entered with a drawn sword in his hand, and the fellow who had admitted us at his heels. 'This is my secretary,' said he. 'He will be my friend in this affair. But we shall need more elbow-room than we can find here. Perhaps you will kindly come with me to a more spacious apartment.' It was evidently impossible to fight in a chamber which was blocked by a great table. We followed him out, therefore, into the dimly-lit hall. At the farther end a light was shining through an open door. 'We shall find what we want in here,' said the man with the dark beard. It was a large, empty room, with rows of barrels and cases round the walls. A strong lamp stood upon a shelf in the corner. The floor was level and true, so that no swordsman could ask for more. Duroc drew his sabre and sprang into it. The Baron stood back with a bow and motioned me to follow my companion. Hardly were my heels over the threshold when the heavy door crashed behind us and the key screamed in the lock. We were taken in a trap. For a moment we could not realize it. Such incredible baseness was outside all our experiences. Then, as we understood how foolish we had been to trust for an instant a man with such a history, a flush of rage came over us, rage against his villainy and against our own stupidity. We rushed at the door together, beating it with our fists and kicking with our heavy boots. The sound of our blows and of our execrations must have resounded through the Castle. We called to this villain, hurling at him every name which might pierce even into his hardened soul. But the door was enormous--such a door as one finds in mediaeval castles--made of huge beams clamped together with iron. It was as easy to break as a square of the Old Guard. And our cries appeared to be of as little avail as our blows, for they only brought for answer the clattering echoes from the high roof above us. When you have done some soldiering, you soon learn to put up with what cannot be altered. It was I, then, who first recovered my calmness, and prevailed upon Duroc to join with me in examining the apartment which had become our dungeon. There was only one window, which had no glass in it, and was so narrow that one could not so much as get one's head through. It was high up, and Duroc had to stand upon a barrel in order to see from it. 'What can you see?' I asked. 'Fir-woods and an avenue of snow between them,' said he. 'Ah!' he gave a cry of surprise. I sprang upon the barrel beside him. There was, as he said, a long, clear strip of snow in front. A man was riding down it, flogging his horse and galloping like a madman. As we watched, he grew smaller and smaller, until he was swallowed up by the black shadows of the forest. 'What does that mean?' asked Duroc. 'No good for us,' said I. 'He may have gone for some brigands to cut our throats. Let us see if we cannot find a way out of this mouse-trap before the cat can arrive.' The one piece of good fortune in our favour was that beautiful lamp. It was nearly full of oil, and would last us until morning. In the dark our situation would have been far more difficult. By its light we proceeded to examine the packages and cases which lined the walls. In some places there was only a single line of them, while in one corner they were piled nearly to the ceiling. It seemed that we were in the storehouse of the Castle, for there were a great number of cheeses, vegetables of various kinds, bins full of dried fruits, and a line of wine barrels. One of these had a spigot in it, and as I had eaten little during the day, I was glad of a cup of claret and some food. As to Duroc, he would take nothing, but paced up and down the room in a fever of anger and impatience. 'I'll have him yet!' he cried, every now and then. 'The rascal shall not escape me!' This was all very well, but it seemed to me, as I sat on a great round cheese eating my supper, that this youngster was thinking rather too much of his own family affairs and too little of the fine scrape into which he had got me. After all, his father had been dead fourteen years, and nothing could set that right; but here was Etienne Gerard, the most dashing lieutenant in the whole Grand Army, in imminent danger of being cut off at the very outset of his brilliant career. Who was ever to know the heights to which I might have risen if I were knocked on the head in this hole-and-corner business, which had nothing whatever to do with France or the Emperor? I could not help thinking what a fool I had been, when I had a fine war before me and everything which a man could desire, to go off on a hare-brained expedition of this sort, as if it were not enough to have a quarter of a million Russians to fight against, without plunging into all sorts of private quarrels as well. 'That is all very well,' I said at last, as I heard Duroc muttering his threats. 'You may do what you like to him when you get the upper hand. At present the question rather is, what is _he_ going to do to us?' 'Let him do his worst!' cried the boy. 'I owe a duty to my father.' 'That is mere foolishness,' said I. 'If you owe a duty to your father, I owe one to my mother, which is to get out of this business safe and sound.' My remark brought him to his senses. 'I have thought too much of myself!' he cried. 'Forgive me, Monsieur Gerard. Give me your advice as to what I should do.' 'Well,' said I, 'it is not for our health that they have shut us up here among the cheeses. They mean to make an end of us if they can. That is certain. They hope that no one knows that we have come here, and that none will trace us if we remain. Do your hussars know where you have gone to?' 'I said nothing.' 'Hum! It is clear that we cannot be starved here. They must come to us if they are to kill us. Behind a barricade of barrels we could hold our own against the five rascals whom we have seen. That is, probably, why they have sent that messenger for assistance.' 'We must get out before he returns.' 'Precisely, if we are to get out at all.' 'Could we not burn down this door?' he cried. 'Nothing could be easier,' said I. 'There are several casks of oil in the corner. My only objection is that we should ourselves be nicely toasted, like two little oyster pâtés.' 'Can you not suggest something?' he cried, in despair. 'Ah, what is that?' There had been a low sound at our little window, and a shadow came between the stars and ourselves. A small, white hand was stretched into the lamplight. Something glittered between the fingers. 'Quick! quick!' cried a woman's voice. We were on the barrel in an instant. 'They have sent for the Cossacks. Your lives are at stake. Ah, I am lost! I am lost!' There was the sound of rushing steps, a hoarse oath, a blow, and the stars were once more twinkling through the window. We stood helpless upon the barrel with our blood cold with horror. Half a minute afterwards we heard a smothered scream, ending in a choke. A great door slammed somewhere in the silent night. 'Those ruffians have seized her. They will kill her,' I cried. Duroc sprang down with the inarticulate shouts of one whose reason has left him. He struck the door so frantically with his naked hands that he left a blotch of blood with every blow. Here is the key!' I shouted, picking one from the floor. 'She must have thrown it in at the instant that she was torn away.' My companion snatched it from me with a shriek of joy. A moment later he dashed it down upon the boards. It was so small that it was lost in the enormous lock. Duroc sank upon one of the boxes with his head between his hands. He sobbed in his despair. I could have sobbed, too, when I thought of the woman and how helpless we were to save her. But I am not easily baffled. After all, this key must have been sent to us for a purpose. The lady could not bring us that of the door, because this murderous step-father of hers would most certainly have it in his pocket. Yet this other must have a meaning, or why should she risk her life to place it in our hands? It would say little for our wits if we could not find out what that meaning might be. I set to work moving all the cases out from the wall, and Duroc, gaining new hope from my courage, helped me with all his strength. It was no light task, for many of them were large and heavy. On we went, working like maniacs, slinging barrels, cheeses, and boxes pell-mell into the middle of the room. At last there only remained one huge barrel of vodka, which stood in the corner. With our united strength we rolled it out, and there was a little low wooden door in the wainscot behind it. The key fitted, and with a cry of delight we saw it swing open before us. With the lamp in my hand, I squeezed my way in, followed by my companion. We were in the powder-magazine of the Castle--a rough, walled cellar, with barrels all round it, and one with the top staved in in the centre. The powder from it lay in a black heap upon the floor. Beyond there was another door, but it was locked. 'We are no better off than before,' cried Duroc. 'We have no key.' 'We have a dozen!' I cried. 'Where?' I pointed to the line of powder barrels. 'You would blow this door open?' 'Precisely.' 'But you would explode the magazine.' It was true, but I was not at the end of my resources. 'We will blow open the store-room door,' I cried. I ran back and seized a tin box which had been filled with candles. It was about the size of my busby--large enough to hold several pounds of powder. Duroc filled it while I cut off the end of a candle. When we had finished, it would have puzzled a colonel of engineers to make a better petard. I put three cheeses on the top of each other and placed it above them, so as to lean against the lock. Then we lit our candle-end and ran for shelter, shutting the door of the magazine behind us. It is no joke, my friends, to be among all those tons of powder, with the knowledge that if the flame of the explosion should penetrate through one thin door our blackened limbs would be shot higher than the Castle keep. Who could have believed that a half-inch of candle could take so long to burn? My ears were straining all the time for the thudding of the hoofs of the Cossacks who were coming to destroy us. I had almost made up my mind that the candle must have gone out when there was a smack like a bursting bomb, our door flew to bits, and pieces of cheese, with a shower of turnips, apples, and splinters of cases, were shot in among us. As we rushed out we had to stagger through an impenetrable smoke, with all sorts of débris beneath our feet, but there was a glimmering square where the dark door had been. The petard had done its work. In fact, it had done more for us than we had even ventured to hope. It had shattered gaolers as well as gaol. The first thing that I saw as I came out into the hall was a man with a butcher's axe in his hand, lying flat upon his back, with a gaping wound across his forehead. The second was a huge dog, with two of its legs broken, twisting in agony upon the floor. As it raised itself up I saw the two broken ends flapping like flails. At the same instant I heard a cry, and there was Duroc, thrown against the wall, with the other hound's teeth in his throat. He pushed it off with his left hand, while again and again he passed his sabre through its body, but it was not until I blew out its brains with my pistol that the iron jaws relaxed, and the fierce, bloodshot eyes were glazed in death. There was no time for us to pause. A woman's scream from in front--a scream of mortal terror--told us that even now we might be too late. There were two other men in the hall, but they cowered away from our drawn swords and furious faces. The blood was streaming from Duroc's neck and dyeing the grey fur of his pelisse. Such was the lad's fire, however, that he shot in front of me, and it was only over his shoulder that I caught a glimpse of the scene as we rushed into the chamber in which we had first seen the master of the Castle of Gloom. The Baron was standing in the middle of the room, his tangled mane bristling like an angry lion. He was, as I have said, a huge man with enormous shoulders; and as he stood there, with his face flushed with rage and his sword advanced, I could not but think that, in spite of all his villainies, he had a proper figure for a grenadier. The lady lay cowering in a chair behind him. A weal across one of her white arms and a dog-whip upon the floor were enough to show that our escape had hardly been in time to save her from his brutality. He gave a howl like a wolf as we broke in, and was upon us in an instant, hacking and driving, with a curse at every blow. I have already said that the room gave no space for swordsmanship. My young companion was in front of me in the narrow passage between the table and the wall, so that I could only look on without being able to aid him. The lad knew something of his weapon, and was as fierce and active as a wild cat, but in so narrow a space the weight and strength of the giant gave him the advantage. Besides, he was an admirable swordsman. His parade and riposte were as quick as lightning. Twice he touched Duroc upon the shoulder, and then, as the lad slipped on a lunge, he whirled up his sword to finish him before he could recover his feet. I was quicker than he, however, and took the cut upon the pommel of my sabre. 'Excuse me,' said I, 'but you have still to deal with Etienne Gerard.' He drew back and leaned against the tapestry-covered wall, breathing in little, hoarse gasps, for his foul living was against him. 'Take your breath,' said I. 'I will await your convenience.' 'You have no cause of quarrel against me,' he panted. 'I owe you some little attention,' said I, 'for having shut me up in your store-room. Besides, if all other were wanting, I see cause enough upon that lady's arm.' 'Have your way, then!' he snarled, and leaped at me like a madman. For a minute I saw only the blazing blue eyes, and the red glazed point which stabbed and stabbed, rasping off to right or to left, and yet ever back at my throat and my breast. I had never thought that such good sword-play was to be found at Paris in the days of the Revolution. I do not suppose that in all my little affairs I have met six men who had a better knowledge of their weapon. But he knew that I was his master. He read death in my eyes, and I could see that he read it. The flush died from his face. His breath came in shorter and in thicker gasps. Yet he fought on, even after the final thrust had come, and died still hacking and cursing, with foul cries upon his lips, and his blood clotting upon his orange beard. I who speak to you have seen so many battles, that my old memory can scarce contain their names, and yet of all the terrible sights which these eyes have rested upon, there is none which I care to think of less than of that orange beard with the crimson stain in the centre, from which I had drawn my sword-point. It was only afterwards that I had time to think of all this. His monstrous body had hardly crashed down upon the floor before the woman in the corner sprang to her feet, clapping her hands together and screaming out in her delight. For my part I was disgusted to see a woman take such delight in a deed of blood, and I gave no thought as to the terrible wrongs which must have befallen her before she could so far forget the gentleness of her sex. It was on my tongue to tell her sharply to be silent, when a strange, choking smell took the breath from my nostrils, and a sudden, yellow glare brought out the figures upon the faded hangings. 'Duroc, Duroc!' I shouted, tugging at his shoulder. 'The Castle is on fire!' The boy lay senseless upon the ground, exhausted by his wounds. I rushed out into the hall to see whence the danger came. It was our explosion which had set alight to the dry frame-work of the door. Inside the store-room some of the boxes were already blazing. I glanced in, and as I did so my blood was turned to water by the sight of the powder barrels beyond, and of the loose heap upon the floor. It might be seconds, it could not be more than minutes, before the flames would be at the edge of it. These eyes will be closed in death, my friends, before they cease to see those crawling lines of fire and the black heap beyond. How little I can remember what followed. Vaguely I can recall how I rushed into the chamber of death, how I seized Duroc by one limp hand and dragged him down the hall, the woman keeping pace with me and pulling at the other arm. Out of the gateway we rushed, and on down the snow-covered path until we were on the fringe of the fir forest. It was at that moment that I heard a crash behind me, and, glancing round, saw a great spout of fire shoot up into the wintry sky. An instant later there seemed to come a second crash, far louder than the first. I saw the fir trees and the stars whirling round me, and I fell unconscious across the body of my comrade. * * * * * It was some weeks before I came to myself in the post-house of Arensdorf, and longer still before I could be told all that had befallen me. It was Duroc, already able to go soldiering, who came to my bedside and gave me an account of it. He it was who told me how a piece of timber had struck me on the head and laid me almost dead upon the ground. From him, too, I learned how the Polish girl had run to Arensdorf, how she had roused our hussars, and how she had only just brought them back in time to save us from the spears of the Cossacks who had been summoned from their bivouac by that same black-bearded secretary whom we had seen galloping so swiftly over the snow. As to the brave lady who had twice saved our lives, I could not learn very much about her at that moment from Duroc, but when I chanced to meet him in Paris two years later, after the campaign of Wagram, I was not very much surprised to find that I needed no introduction to his bride, and that by the queer turns of fortune he had himself, had he chosen to use it, that very name and title of the Baron Straubenthal, which showed him to be the owner of the blackened ruins of the Castle of Gloom. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote A: The term Brigadier is used throughout in its English and not in its French sense.] 2. HOW THE BRIGADIER SLEW THE BROTHERS OF AJACCIO When the Emperor needed an agent he was always very ready to do me the honour of recalling the name of Etienne Gerard, though it occasionally escaped him when rewards were to be distributed. Still, I was a colonel at twenty-eight, and the chief of a brigade at thirty-one, so that I have no reason to be dissatisfied with my career. Had the wars lasted another two or three years I might have grasped my bâton, and the man who had his hand upon that was only one stride from a throne. Murat had changed his hussar's cap for a crown, and another light cavalry man might have done as much. However, all those dreams were driven away by Waterloo, and, although I was not able to write my name upon history, it is sufficiently well known by all who served with me in the great wars of the Empire. What I want to tell you tonight is about the very singular affair which first started me upon my rapid upward course, and which had the effect of establishing a secret bond between the Emperor and myself. There is just one little word of warning which I must give you before I begin. When you hear me speak, you must always bear in mind that you are listening to one who has seen history from the inside. I am talking about what my ears have heard and my eyes have seen, so you must not try to confute me by quoting the opinions of some student or man of the pen, who has written a book of history or memoirs. There is much which is unknown by such people, and much which never will be known by the world. For my own part, I could tell you some very surprising things were it discreet to do so. The facts which I am about to relate to you tonight were kept secret by me during the Emperor's lifetime, because I gave him my promise that it should be so, but I do not think that there can be any harm now in my telling the remarkable part which I played. You must know, then, that at the time of the Treaty of Tilsit I was a simple lieutenant in the 10th Hussars, without money or interest. It is true that my appearance and my gallantry were in my favour, and that I had already won a reputation as being one of the best swordsmen in the army; but amongst the host of brave men who surrounded the Emperor it needed more than this to insure a rapid career. I was confident, however, that my chance would come, though I never dreamed that it would take so remarkable a form. When the Emperor returned to Paris, after the declaration of peace in the year 1807, he spent much of his time with the Empress and the Court at Fontainebleau. It was the time when he was at the pinnacle of his career. He had in three successive campaigns humbled Austria, crushed Prussia, and made the Russians very glad to get upon the right side of the Niemen. The old Bulldog over the Channel was still growling, but he could not get very far from his kennel. If we could have made a perpetual peace at that moment, France would have taken a higher place than any nation since the days of the Romans. So I have heard the wise folk say, though for my part I had other things to think of. All the girls were glad to see the army back after its long absence, and you may be sure that I had my share of any favours that were going. You may judge how far I was a favourite in those days when I say that even now, in my sixtieth year--but why should I dwell upon that which is already sufficiently well known? Our regiment of hussars was quartered with the horse chasseurs of the guard at Fontainebleau. It is, as you know, but a little place, buried in the heart of the forest, and it was wonderful at this time to see it crowded with Grand Dukes and Electors and Princes, who thronged round Napoleon like puppies round their master, each hoping that some bone might be thrown to him. There was more German than French to be heard in the street, for those who had helped us in the late war had come to beg for a reward, and those who had opposed us had come to try and escape their punishment. And all the time our little man, with his pale face and his cold, grey eyes, was riding to the hunt every morning, silent and brooding, all of them following in his train, in the hope that some word would escape him. And then, when the humour seized him, he would throw a hundred square miles to that man, or tear as much off the other, round off one kingdom by a river, or cut off another by a chain of mountains. That was how he used to do business, this little artilleryman, whom we had raised so high with our sabres and our bayonets. He was very civil to us always, for he knew where his power came from. We knew also, and showed it by the way in which we carried ourselves. We were agreed, you understand, that he was the finest leader in the world, but we did not forget that he had the finest men to lead. Well, one day I was seated in my quarters playing cards with young Morat, of the horse chasseurs, when the door opened and in walked Lasalle, who was our Colonel. You know what a fine, swaggering fellow he was, and the sky-blue uniform of the Tenth suited him to a marvel. My faith, we youngsters were so taken by him that we all swore and diced and drank and played the deuce whether we liked it or no, just that we might resemble our Colonel! We forgot that it was not because he drank or gambled that the Emperor was going to make him the head of the light cavalry, but because he had the surest eye for the nature of a position or for the strength of a column, and the best judgment as to when infantry could be broken, or whether guns were exposed, of any man in the army. We were too young to understand all that, however, so we waxed our moustaches and clicked our spurs and let the ferrules of our scabbards wear out by trailing them along the pavement in the hope that we should all become Lasalles. When he came clanking into my quarters, both Morat and I sprang to our feet. 'My boy,' said he, clapping me on the shoulder, 'the Emperor wants to see you at four o'clock.' The room whirled round me at the words, and I had to lean my hands upon the edge of the card-table. 'What?' I cried. 'The Emperor!' 'Precisely,' said he, smiling at my astonishment. 'But the Emperor does not know of my existence, Colonel,' I protested. 'Why should he send for me?' 'Well, that's just what puzzles me,' cried Lasalle, twirling his moustache. 'If he wanted the help of a good sabre, why should he descend to one of my lieutenants when he might have found all that he needed at the head of the regiment? However,' he added, clapping me on the shoulder again in his hearty fashion, 'every man has his chance. I have had mine, otherwise I should not be Colonel of the Tenth. I must not grudge you yours. Forwards, my boy, and may it be the first step towards changing your busby for a cocked hat.' It was but two o'clock, so he left me, promising to come back and to accompany me to the palace. My faith, what a time I passed, and how many conjectures did I make as to what it was that the Emperor could want of me! I paced up and down my little room in a fever of anticipation. Sometimes I thought that perhaps he had heard of the guns which we had taken at Austerlitz; but, then, there were so many who had taken guns at Austerlitz, and two years had passed since the battle. Or it might be that he wished to reward me for my affair with the _aide-de-camp_ of the Russian Emperor. But then again a cold fit would seize me, and I would fancy that he had sent for me to reprimand me. There were a few duels which he might have taken in ill part, and there were one or two little jokes in Paris since the peace. But, no! I considered the words of Lasalle. 'If he had need of a brave man,' said Lasalle. It was obvious that my Colonel had some idea of what was in the wind. If he had not known that it was to my advantage, he would not have been so cruel as to congratulate me. My heart glowed with joy as this conviction grew upon me, and I sat down to write to my mother and to tell her that the Emperor was waiting, at that very moment, to have my opinion upon a matter of importance. It made me smile as I wrote it to think that, wonderful as it appeared to me, it would probably only confirm my mother in her opinion of the Emperor's good sense. At half-past three I heard a sabre come clanking against every step of my wooden stair. It was Lasalle, and with him was a lame gentleman, very neatly dressed in black with dapper ruffles and cuffs. We did not know many civilians, we of the army, but, my word, this was one whom we could not afford to ignore! I had only to glance at those twinkling eyes, the comical, upturned nose, and the straight, precise mouth, to know that I was in the presence of the one man in France whom even the Emperor had to consider. 'This is Monsieur Etienne Gerard, Monsieur de Talleyrand,' said Lasalle. I saluted, and the statesman took me in from the top of my panache to the rowel of my spur, with a glance that played over me like a rapier point. 'Have you explained to the lieutenant the circumstances under which he is summoned to the Emperor's presence?' he asked, in his dry, creaking voice. They were such a contrast, these two men, that I could not help glancing from one to the other of them: the black, sly politician, and the big, sky-blue hussar with one fist on his hip and the other on the hilt of his sabre. They both took their seats as I looked, Talleyrand without a sound, and Lasalle with a clash and a jingle like a prancing charger. 'It's this way, youngster,' said he, in his brusque fashion; 'I was with the Emperor in his private cabinet this morning when a note was brought in to him. He opened it, and as he did so he gave such a start that it fluttered down on to the floor. I handed it up to him again, but he was staring at the wall in front of him as if he had seen a ghost. "Fratelli dell' Ajaccio," he muttered; and then again, "Fratelli dell' Ajaccio." I don't pretend to know more Italian than a man can pick up in two campaigns, and I could make nothing of this. It seemed to me that he had gone out of his mind; and you would have said so also, Monsieur de Talleyrand, if you had seen the look in his eyes. He read the note, and then he sat for half an hour or more without moving.' 'And you?' asked Talleyrand. 'Why, I stood there not knowing what I ought to do. Presently he seemed to come back to his senses. '"I suppose, Lasalle," said he, "that you have some gallant young officers in the Tenth?" '"They are all that, sire," I answered. '"If you had to pick one who was to be depended upon for action, but who would not think too much--you understand me, Lasalle--which would you select?" he asked. 'I saw that he needed an agent who would not penetrate too deeply into his plans. '"I have one," said I, "who is all spurs and moustaches, with never a thought beyond women and horses." '"That is the man I want," said Napoleon. "Bring him to my private cabinet at four o'clock." 'So, youngster, I came straight away to you at once, and mind that you do credit to the 10th Hussars.' I was by no means flattered by the reasons which had led to my Colonel's choice, and I must have shown as much in my face, for he roared with laughter and Talleyrand gave a dry chuckle also. 'Just one word of advice before you go, Monsieur Gerard,' said he: 'you are now coming into troubled waters, and you might find a worse pilot than myself. We have none of us any idea as to what this little affair means, and, between ourselves, it is very important for us, who have the destinies of France upon our shoulders, to keep ourselves in touch with all that goes on. You understand me, Monsieur Gerard?' I had not the least idea what he was driving at, but I bowed and tried to look as if it was clear to me. 'Act very guardedly, then, and say nothing to anybody,' said Talleyrand. 'Colonel de Lasalle and I will not show ourselves in public with you, but we will await you here, and we will give you our advice when you have told us what has passed between the Emperor and yourself. It is time that you started now, for the Emperor never forgives unpunctuality.' Off I went on foot to the palace, which was only a hundred paces off. I made my way to the ante-chamber, where Duroc, with his grand new scarlet and gold coat, was fussing about among the crowd of people who were waiting. I heard him whisper to Monsieur de Caulaincourt that half of them were German Dukes who expected to be made Kings, and the other half German Dukes who expected to be made paupers. Duroc, when he heard my name, showed me straight in, and I found myself in the Emperor's presence. I had, of course, seen him in camp a hundred times, but I had never been face to face with him before. I have no doubt that if you had met him without knowing in the least who he was, you would simply have said that he was a sallow little fellow with a good forehead and fairly well-turned calves. His tight white cashmere breeches and white stockings showed off his legs to advantage. But even a stranger must have been struck by the singular look of his eyes, which could harden into an expression which would frighten a grenadier. It is said that even Auguereau, who was a man who had never known what fear was, quailed before Napoleon's gaze, at a time, too, when the Emperor was but an unknown soldier. He looked mildly enough at me, however, and motioned me to remain by the door. De Meneval was writing to his dictation, looking up at him between each sentence with his spaniel eyes. 'That will do. You can go,' said the Emperor, abruptly. Then, when the secretary had left the room, he strode across with his hands behind his back, and he looked me up and down without a word. Though he was a small man himself, he was very fond of having fine-looking fellows about him, and so I think that my appearance gave him pleasure. For my own part, I raised one hand to the salute and held the other upon the hilt of my sabre, looking straight ahead of me, as a soldier should. 'Well, Monsieur Gerard,' said he, at last, tapping his forefinger upon one of the brandebourgs of gold braid upon the front of my pelisse, 'I am informed that you are a very deserving young officer. Your Colonel gives me an excellent account of you.' I wished to make a brilliant reply, but I could think of nothing save Lasalle's phrase that I was all spurs and moustaches, so it ended in my saying nothing at all. The Emperor watched the struggle which must have shown itself upon my features, and when, finally, no answer came he did not appear to be displeased. 'I believe that you are the very man that I want,' said he. 'Brave and clever men surround me upon every side. But a brave man who----' He did not finish his sentence, and for my own part I could not understand what he was driving at. I contented myself with assuring him that he could count upon me to the death. 'You are, as I understand, a good swordsman?' said he. 'Tolerable, sire,' I answered. 'You were chosen by your regiment to fight the champion of the Hussars of Chambarant?' said he. I was not sorry to find that he knew so much of my exploits. 'My comrades, sire, did me that honour,' said I. 'And for the sake of practice you insulted six fencing masters in the week before your duel?' 'I had the privilege of being out seven times in as many days, sire,' said I. 'And escaped without a scratch?' 'The fencing master of the 23rd Light Infantry touched me on the left elbow, sire.' 'Let us have no more child's play of the sort, monsieur,' he cried, turning suddenly to that cold rage of his which was so appalling. 'Do you imagine that I place veteran soldiers in these positions that you may practise quarte and tierce upon them? How am I to face Europe if my soldiers turn their points upon each other? Another word of your duelling, and I break you between these fingers.' I saw his plump white hands flash before my eyes as he spoke, and his voice had turned to the most discordant hissing and growling. My word, my skin pringled all over as I listened to him, and I would gladly have changed my position for that of the first man in the steepest and narrowest breach that ever swallowed up a storming party. He turned to the table, drank off a cup of coffee, and then when he faced me again every trace of this storm had vanished, and he wore that singular smile which came from his lips but never from his eyes. 'I have need of your services, Monsieur Gerard,' said he. 'I may be safer with a good sword at my side, and there are reasons why yours should be the one which I select. But first of all I must bind you to secrecy. Whilst I live what passes between us today must be known to none but ourselves.' I thought of Talleyrand and of Lasalle, but I promised. 'In the next place, I do not want your opinions or conjectures, and I wish you to do exactly what you are told.' I bowed. 'It is your sword that I need, and not your brains. I will do the thinking. Is that clear to you?' 'Yes, sire.' 'You know the Chancellor's Grove, in the forest?' I bowed. 'You know also the large double fir-tree where the hounds assembled on Tuesday?' Had he known that I met a girl under it three times a week, he would not have asked me. I bowed once more without remark. 'Very good. You will meet me there at ten o'clock tonight.' I had got past being surprised at anything which might happen. If he had asked me to take his place upon the imperial throne I could only have nodded my busby. 'We shall then proceed into the wood together,' said the Emperor. 'You will be armed with a sword, but not with pistols. You must address no remark to me, and I shall say nothing to you. We will advance in silence. You understand?' 'I understand, sire.' 'After a time we shall see a man, or more probably two men, under a certain tree. We shall approach them together. If I signal to you to defend me, you will have your sword ready. If, on the other hand, I speak to these men, you will wait and see what happens. If you are called upon to draw, you must see that neither of them, in the event of there being two, escapes from us. I shall myself assist you.' 'Sire,' I cried, 'I have no doubt that two would not be too many for my sword; but would it not be better that I should bring a comrade than that you should be forced to join in such a struggle?' 'Ta, ta, ta,' said he. 'I was a soldier before I was an Emperor. Do you think, then, that artillerymen have not swords as well as the hussars? But I ordered you not to argue with me. You will do exactly what I tell you. If swords are once out, neither of these men is to get away alive.' 'They shall not, sire,' said I. 'Very good. I have no more instructions for you. You can go.' I turned to the door, and then an idea occurring to me I turned. 'I have been thinking, sire--' said I. He sprang at me with the ferocity of a wild beast. I really thought he would have struck me. 'Thinking!' he cried. 'You, _you_! Do you imagine I chose you out because you could think? Let me hear of your doing such a thing again! You, the one man--but, there! You meet me at the fir-tree at ten o'clock.' My faith, I was right glad to get out of the room. If I have a good horse under me, and a sword clanking against my stirrup-iron, I know where I am. And in all that relates to green fodder or dry, barley and oats and rye, and the handling of squadrons upon the march, there is no one who can teach me very much. But when I meet a Chamberlain and a Marshal of the Palace, and have to pick my words with an Emperor, and find that everybody hints instead of talking straight out, I feel like a troop-horse who has been put in a lady's calèche. It is not my trade, all this mincing and pretending. I have learned the manners of a gentleman, but never those of a courtier. I was right glad then to get into the fresh air again, and I ran away up to my quarters like a schoolboy who has just escaped from the seminary master. But as I opened the door, the very first thing that my eye rested upon was a long pair of sky-blue legs with hussar boots, and a short pair of black ones with knee breeches and buckles. They both sprang up together to greet me. 'Well, what news?' they cried, the two of them. 'None,' I answered. 'The Emperor refused to see you?' 'No, I have seen him.' 'And what did he say?' 'Monsieur de Talleyrand,' I answered, 'I regret to say that it is quite impossible for me to tell you anything about it. I have promised the Emperor.' 'Pooh, pooh, my dear young man,' said he, sidling up to me, as a cat does when it is about to rub itself against you. 'This is all among friends, you understand, and goes no farther than these four walls. Besides, the Emperor never meant to include me in this promise.' 'It is but a minute's walk to the palace, Monsieur de Talleyrand,' I answered; 'if it would not be troubling you too much to ask you to step up to it and bring back the Emperor's written statement that he did not mean to include you in this promise, I shall be happy to tell you every word that passed.' He showed his teeth at me then like the old fox that he was. 'Monsieur Gerard appears to be a little puffed up,' said he. 'He is too young to see things in their just proportion. As he grows older he may understand that it is not always very discreet for a subaltern of cavalry to give such very abrupt refusals.' I did not know what to say to this, but Lasalle came to my aid in his downright fashion. 'The lad is quite right,' said he. 'If I had known that there was a promise I should not have questioned him. You know very well, Monsieur de Talleyrand, that if he had answered you, you would have laughed in your sleeve and thought as much about him as I think of the bottle when the burgundy is gone. As for me, I promise you that the Tenth would have had no room for him, and that we should have lost our best swordsman if I had heard him give up the Emperor's secret.' But the statesman became only the more bitter when he saw that I had the support of my Colonel. 'I have heard, Colonel de Lasalle,' said he, with an icy dignity, 'that your opinion is of great weight upon the subject of light cavalry. Should I have occasion to seek information about that branch of the army, I shall be very happy to apply to you. At present, however, the matter concerns diplomacy, and you will permit me to form my own views upon that question. As long as the welfare of France and the safety of the Emperor's person are largely committed to my care, I will use every means in my power to secure them, even if it should be against the Emperor's own temporary wishes. I have the honour, Colonel de Lasalle, to wish you a very good-day!' He shot a most unamiable glance in my direction, and, turning upon his heel, he walked with little, quick, noiseless steps out of the room. I could see from Lasalle's face that he did not at all relish finding himself at enmity with the powerful Minister. He rapped out an oath or two, and then, catching up his sabre and his cap, he clattered away down the stairs. As I looked out of the window I saw the two of them, the big blue man and the limping black one, going up the street together. Talleyrand was walking very rigidly, and Lasalle was waving his hands and talking, so I suppose he was trying to make his peace. The Emperor had told me not to think, and I endeavoured to obey him. I took up the cards from the table where Morat had left them, and I tried to work out a few combinations at écarté. But I could not remember which were trumps, and I threw them under the table in despair. Then I drew my sabre and practised giving point until I was weary, but it was all of no use at all. My mind _would_ work, in spite of myself. At ten o'clock I was to meet the Emperor in the forest. Of all extraordinary combinations of events in the whole world, surely this was the last which would have occurred to me when I rose from my couch that morning. But the responsibility--- the dreadful responsibility! It was all upon my shoulders. There was no one to halve it with me. It made me cold all over. Often as I have faced death upon the battle-field, I have never known what real fear was until that moment. But then I considered that after all I could but do my best like a brave and honourable gentleman, and above all obey the orders which I had received, to the very letter. And, if all went well, this would surely be the foundation of my fortunes. Thus, swaying between my fears and my hopes, I spent the long, long evening until it was time to keep my appointment. I put on my military overcoat, as I did not know how much of the night I might have to spend in the woods, and I fastened my sword outside it. I pulled off my hussar boots also, and wore a pair of shoes and gaiters, that I might be lighter upon my feet. Then I stole out of my quarters and made for the forest, feeling very much easier in my mind, for I am always at my best when the time of thought has passed and the moment for action arrived. I passed the barracks of the Chasseurs of the Guards, and the line of cafes all filled with uniforms. I caught a glimpse as I went by of the blue and gold of some of my comrades, amid the swarm of dark infantry coats and the light green of the Guides. There they sat, sipping their wine and smoking their cigars, little dreaming what their comrade had on hand. One of them, the chief of my squadron, caught sight of me in the lamplight, and came shouting after me into the street. I hurried on, however, pretending not to hear him, so he, with a curse at my deafness, went back at last to his wine bottle. It is not very hard to get into the forest at Fontainebleau. The scattered trees steal their way into the very streets, like the tirailleurs in front of a column. I turned into a path, which led to the edge of the woods, and then I pushed rapidly forward towards the old fir-tree. It was a place which, as I have hinted, I had my own reasons for knowing well, and I could only thank the Fates that it was not one of the nights upon which Léonie would be waiting for me. The poor child would have died of terror at sight of the Emperor. He might have been too harsh with her--and worse still, he might have been too kind. There was a half moon shining, and, as I came up to our trysting-place, I saw that I was not the first to arrive. The Emperor was pacing up and down, his hands behind him and his face sunk somewhat forward upon his breast. He wore a grey great-coat with a capote over his head. I had seen him in such a dress in our winter campaign in Poland, and it was said that he used it because the hood was such an excellent disguise. He was always fond, whether in the camp or in Paris, of walking round at night, and overhearing the talk in the cabarets or round the fires. His figure, however, and his way of carrying his head and his hands were so well known that he was always recognized, and then the talkers would say whatever they thought would please him best. My first thought was that he would be angry with me for having kept him waiting, but as I approached him, we heard the big church clock of Fontainebleau clang out the hour of ten. It was evident, therefore, that it was he who was too soon, and not I too late. I remembered his order that I should make no remark, so contented myself with halting within four paces of him, clicking my spurs together, grounding my sabre, and saluting. He glanced at me, and then without a word he turned and walked slowly through the forest, I keeping always about the same distance behind him. Once or twice he seemed to me to look apprehensively to right and to left, as if he feared that someone was observing us. I looked also, but although I have the keenest sight, it was quite impossible to see anything except the ragged patches of moonshine between the great black shadows of the trees. My ears are as quick as my eyes, and once or twice I thought that I heard a twig crack; but you know how many sounds there are in a forest at night, and how difficult it is even to say what direction they come from. We walked for rather more than a mile, and I knew exactly what our destination was, long before we got there. In the centre of one of the glades, there is the shattered stump of what must at some time have been a most gigantic tree. It is called the Abbot's Beech, and there are so many ghostly stories about it, that I know many a brave soldier who would not care about mounting sentinel over it. However, I cared as little for such folly as the Emperor did, so we crossed the glade and made straight for the old broken trunk. As we approached, I saw that two men were waiting for us beneath it. When I first caught sight of them they were standing rather behind it, as if they were not anxious to be seen, but as we came nearer they emerged from its shadow and walked forward to meet us. The Emperor glanced back at me, and slackened his pace a little so that I came within arm's length of him. You may think that I had my hilt well to the front, and that I had a very good look at these two people who were approaching us. The one was tall, remarkably so, and of very spare frame, while the other was rather below the usual height, and had a brisk, determined way of walking. They each wore black cloaks, which were slung right across their figures, and hung down upon one side, like the mantles of Murat's dragoons. They had flat black caps, like those I have since seen in Spain, which threw their faces into darkness, though I could see the gleam of their eyes from beneath them. With the moon behind them and their long black shadows walking in front, they were such figures as one might expect to meet at night near the Abbot's Beech. I can remember that they had a stealthy way of moving, and that as they approached, the moonshine formed two white diamonds between their legs and the legs of their shadows. The Emperor had paused, and these two strangers came to a stand also within a few paces of us. I had drawn up close to my companion's elbow, so that the four of us were facing each other without a word spoken. My eyes were particularly fixed upon the taller one, because he was slightly the nearer to me, and I became certain as I watched him that he was in the last state of nervousness. His lean figure was quivering all over, and I heard a quick, thin panting like that of a tired dog. Suddenly one of them gave a short, hissing signal. The tall man bent his back and his knees like a diver about to spring, but before he could move, I had jumped with drawn sabre in front of him. At the same instant the smaller man bounded past me, and buried a long poniard in the Emperor's heart. My God! the horror of that moment! It is a marvel that I did not drop dead myself. As in a dream, I saw the grey coat whirl convulsively round, and caught a glimpse in the moonlight of three inches of red point which jutted out from between the shoulders. Then down he fell with a dead man's gasp upon the grass, and the assassin, leaving his weapon buried in his victim, threw up both his hands and shrieked with joy. But I--I drove my sword through his midriff with such frantic force, that the mere blow of the hilt against the end of his breast-bone sent him six paces before he fell, and left my reeking blade ready for the other. I sprang round upon him with such a lust for blood upon me as I had never felt, and never have felt, in all my days. As I turned, a dagger flashed before my eyes, and I felt the cold wind of it pass my neck and the villain's wrist jar upon my shoulder. I shortened my sword, but he winced away from me, and an instant afterwards was in full flight, bounding like a deer across the glade in the moonlight. But he was not to escape me thus. I knew that the murderer's poniard had done its work. Young as I was, I had seen enough of war to know a mortal blow. I paused but for an instant to touch the cold hand. 'Sire! Sire!' I cried, in an agony; and then as no sound came back and nothing moved, save an ever-widening dark circle in the moonlight, I knew that all was indeed over. I sprang madly to my feet, threw off my great-coat, and ran at the top of my speed after the remaining assassin. Ah, how I blessed the wisdom which had caused me to come in shoes and gaiters! And the happy thought which had thrown off my coat. He could not get rid of his mantle, this wretch, or else he was too frightened to think of it. So it was that I gained upon him from the beginning. He must have been out of his wits, for he never tried to bury himself in the darker parts of the woods, but he flew on from glade to glade, until he came to the heath-land which leads up to the great Fontainebleau quarry. There I had him in full sight, and knew that he could not escape me. He ran well, it is true--ran as a coward runs when his life is the stake. But I ran as Destiny runs when it gets behind a man's heels. Yard by yard I drew in upon him. He was rolling and staggering. I could hear the rasping and crackling of his breath. The great gulf of the quarry suddenly yawned in front of his path, and glancing at me over his shoulder, he gave a shriek of despair. The next instant he had vanished from my sight. Vanished utterly, you understand. I rushed to the spot, and gazed down into the black abyss. Had he hurled himself over? I had almost made up my mind that he had done so, when a gentle sound rising and falling came out of the darkness beneath me. It was his breathing once more, and it showed me where he must be. He was hiding in the tool-house. At the edge of the quarry and beneath the summit there is a small platform upon which stands a wooden hut for the use of the labourers. It was into this, then, that he had darted. Perhaps he had thought, the fool, that, in the darkness, I would not venture to follow him. He little knew Etienne Gerard. With a spring I was on the platform, with another I was through the doorway, and then, hearing him in the corner, I hurled myself down upon the top of him. He fought like a wild cat, but he never had a chance with his shorter weapon. I think that I must have transfixed him with that first mad lunge, for, though he struck and struck, his blows had no power in them, and presently his dagger tinkled down upon the floor. When I was sure that he was dead, I rose up and passed out into the moonlight. I climbed on to the heath again, and wandered across it as nearly out of my mind as a man could be. With the blood singing in my ears, and my naked sword still clutched in my hand, I walked aimlessly on until, looking round me, I found that I had come as far as the glade of the Abbot's Beech, and saw in the distance that gnarled stump which must ever be associated with the most terrible moment of my life. I sat down upon a fallen trunk with my sword across my knees and my head between my hands, and I tried to think about what had happened and what would happen in the future. The Emperor had committed himself to my care. The Emperor was dead. Those were the two thoughts which clanged in my head, until I had no room for any other ones. He had come with me and he was dead. I had done what he had ordered when living. I had revenged him when dead. But what of all that? The world would look upon me as responsible. They might even look upon me as the assassin. What could I prove? What witnesses had I? Might I not have been the accomplice of these wretches? Yes, yes, I was eternally dishonoured--the lowest, most despicable creature in all France. This, then, was the end of my fine military ambitions--of the hopes of my mother. I laughed bitterly at the thought. And what was I to do now? Was I to go into Fontainebleau, to wake up the palace, and to inform them that the great Emperor had been murdered within a pace of me? I could not do it--no, I could not do it! There was but one course for an honourable gentleman whom Fate had placed in so cruel a position. I would fall upon my dishonoured sword, and so share, since I could not avert, the Emperor's fate. I rose with my nerves strung to this last piteous deed, and as I did so, my eyes fell upon something which struck the breath from my lips. The Emperor was standing before me! He was not more than ten yards off, with the moon shining straight upon his cold, pale face. He wore his grey overcoat, but the hood was turned back, and the front open, so that I could see the green coat of the Guides, and the white breeches. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his chin sunk forward upon his breast, in the way that was usual with him. 'Well,' said he, in his hardest and most abrupt voice, 'what account do you give of yourself?' I believe that, if he had stood in silence for another minute, my brain would have given way. But those sharp military accents were exactly what I needed to bring me to myself. Living or dead, here was the Emperor standing before me and asking me questions. I sprang to the salute. 'You have killed one, I see,' said he, jerking his head towards the beech. 'Yes, sire.' 'And the other escaped?' 'No, sire, I killed him also.' 'What!' he cried. 'Do I understand that you have killed them both?' He approached me as he spoke with a smile which set his teeth gleaming in the moonlight. 'One body lies there, sire,' I answered. 'The other is in the tool-house at the quarry.' 'Then the Brothers of Ajaccio are no more,' he cried, and after a pause, as if speaking to himself: 'The shadow has passed me for ever.' Then he bent forward and laid his hand upon my shoulder. 'You have done very well, my young friend,' said he. 'You have lived up to your reputation.' He was flesh and blood, then, this Emperor. I could feel the little, plump palm that rested upon me. And yet I could not get over what I had seen with my own eyes, and so I stared at him in such bewilderment that he broke once more into one of his smiles. 'No, no, Monsieur Gerard,' said he, 'I am not a ghost, and you have not seen me killed. You will come here, and all will be clear to you.' He turned as he spoke, and led the way towards the great beech stump. The bodies were still lying upon the ground, and two men were standing beside them. As we approached I saw from the turbans that they were Roustem and Mustafa, the two Mameluke servants. The Emperor paused when he came to the grey figure upon the ground, and turning back the hood which shrouded the features, he showed a face which was very different from his own. 'Here lies a faithful servant who has given up his life for his master,' said he. 'Monsieur de Goudin resembles me in figure and in manner, as you must admit.' What a delirium of joy came upon me when these few words made everything clear to me. He smiled again as he saw the delight which urged me to throw my arms round him and to embrace him, but he moved a step away, as if he had divined my impulse. 'You are unhurt?' he asked. 'I am unhurt, sire. But in another minute I should in my despair----' 'Tut, tut!' he interrupted. 'You did very well. He should himself have been more on his guard. I saw everything which passed.' 'You saw it, sire!' 'You did not hear me follow you through the wood, then? I hardly lost sight of you from the moment that you left your quarters until poor De Goudin fell. The counterfeit Emperor was in front of you and the real one behind. You will now escort me back to the palace.' He whispered an order to his Mamelukes, who saluted in silence and remained where they were standing. For my part, I followed the Emperor with my pelisse bursting with pride. My word, I have always carried myself as a hussar should, but Lasalle himself never strutted and swung his dolman as I did that night. Who should clink his spurs and clatter his sabre if it were not I--I, Etienne Gerard--the confidant of the Emperor, the chosen swordsman of the light cavalry, the man who slew the would-be assassins of Napoleon? But he noticed my bearing and turned upon me like a blight. 'Is that the way you carry yourself on a secret mission?' he hissed, with that cold glare in his eyes. 'Is it thus that you will make your comrades believe that nothing remarkable has occurred? Have done with this nonsense, monsieur, or you will find yourself transferred to the sappers, where you would have harder work and duller plumage.' That was the way with the Emperor. If ever he thought that anyone might have a claim upon him, he took the first opportunity to show him the gulf that lay between. I saluted and was silent, but I must confess to you that it hurt me after all that had passed between us. He led on to the palace, where we passed through the side door and up into his own cabinet. There were a couple of grenadiers at the staircase, and their eyes started out from under their fur caps, I promise you, when they saw a young lieutenant of hussars going up to the Emperor's room at midnight. I stood by the door, as I had done in the afternoon, while he flung himself down in an arm-chair, and remained silent so long that it seemed to me that he had forgotten all about me. I ventured at last upon a slight cough to remind him. 'Ah, Monsieur Gerard,' said he, 'you are very curious, no doubt, as to the meaning of all this?' 'I am quite content, sire, if it is your pleasure not to tell me,' I answered. 'Ta, ta, ta,' said he impatiently. 'These are only words. The moment that you were outside that door you would begin making inquiries about what it means. In two days your brother officers would know about it, in three days it would be all over Fontainebleau, and it would be in Paris on the fourth. Now, if I tell you enough to appease your curiosity, there is some reasonable hope that you may be able to keep the matter to yourself.' He did not understand me, this Emperor, and yet I could only bow and be silent. 'A few words will make it clear to you,' said he, speaking very swiftly and pacing up and down the room. 'They were Corsicans, these two men. I had known them in my youth. We had belonged to the same society--Brothers of Ajaccio, as we called ourselves. It was founded in the old Paoli days, you understand, and we had some strict rules of our own which were not infringed with impunity.' A very grim look came over his face as he spoke, and it seemed to me that all that was French had gone out of him, and that it was the pure Corsican, the man of strong passions and of strange revenges, who stood before me. His memory had gone back to those early days of his, and for five minutes, wrapped in thought, he paced up and down the room with his quick little tiger steps. Then with an impatient wave of his hands he came back to his palace and to me. 'The rules of such a society,' he continued, 'are all very well for a private citizen. In the old days there was no more loyal brother than I. But circumstances change, and it would be neither for my welfare nor for that of France that I should now submit myself to them. They wanted to hold me to it, and so brought their fate upon their own heads. These were the two chiefs of the order, and they had come from Corsica to summon me to meet them at the spot which they named. I knew what such a summons meant. No man had ever returned from obeying one. On the other hand, if I did not go, I was sure that disaster would follow. I am a brother myself, you remember, and I know their ways.' Again there came that hardening of his mouth and cold glitter of his eyes. 'You perceive my dilemma, Monsieur Gerard,' said he. 'How would you have acted yourself, under such circumstances?' 'Given the word to the l0th Hussars, sire,' I cried. 'Patrols could have swept the woods from end to end, and brought these two rascals to your feet.' He smiled, but he shook his head. 'I had very excellent reasons why I did not wish them taken alive,' said he. 'You can understand that an assassin's tongue might be as dangerous a weapon as an assassin's dagger. I will not disguise from you that I wished to avoid scandal at all cost. That was why I ordered you to take no pistols with you. That also is why my Mamelukes will remove all traces of the affair, and nothing more will be heard about it. I thought of all possible plans, and I am convinced that I selected the best one. Had I sent more than one guard with De Goudin into the woods, then the brothers would not have appeared. They would not change their plans nor miss their chance for the sake of a single man. It was Colonel Lasalle's accidental presence at the moment when I received the summons which led to my choosing one of his hussars for the mission. I selected you, Monsieur Gerard, because I wanted a man who could handle a sword, and who would not pry more deeply into the affair than I desired. I trust that, in this respect, you will justify my choice as well as you have done in your bravery and skill.' 'Sire,' I answered, 'you may rely upon it.' 'As long as I live,' said he, 'you never open your lips upon this subject.' 'I dismiss it entirely from my mind, sire. I will efface it from my recollection as if it had never been. I will promise you to go out of your cabinet at this moment exactly as I was when I entered it at four o'clock.' 'You cannot do that,' said the Emperor, smiling. 'You were a lieutenant at that time. You will permit me, Captain, to wish you a very good-night.' 3. HOW THE BRIGADIER HELD THE KING Here, upon the lapel of my coat, you may see the ribbon of my decoration, but the medal itself I keep in a leathern pouch at home, and I never venture to take it out unless one of the modern peace generals, or some foreigner of distinction who finds himself in our little town, takes advantage of the opportunity to pay his respects to the well-known Brigadier Gerard. Then I place it upon my breast, and I give my moustache the old Marengo twist which brings a grey point into either eye. Yet with it all I fear that neither they, nor you either, my friends, will ever realize the man that I was. You know me only as a civilian--with an air and a manner, it is true--but still merely as a civilian. Had you seen me as I stood in the doorway of the inn at Alamo, on the 1st of July, in the year 1810, you would then have known what the hussar may attain to. For a month I had lingered in that accursed village, and all on account of a lance-thrust in my ankle, which made it impossible for me to put my foot to the ground. There were three besides myself at first: old Bouvet, of the Hussars of Bercheny, Jacques Regnier, of the Cuirassiers, and a funny little voltigeur captain whose name I forget; but they all got well and hurried on to the front, while I sat gnawing my fingers and tearing my hair, and even, I must confess, weeping from time to time as I thought of my Hussars of Conflans, and the deplorable condition in which they must find themselves when deprived of their colonel. I was not a chief of brigade yet, you understand, although I already carried myself like one, but I was the youngest colonel in the whole service, and my regiment was wife and children to me. It went to my heart that they should be so bereaved. It is true that Villaret, the senior major, was an excellent soldier; but still, even among the best there are degrees of merit. Ah, that happy July day of which I speak, when first I limped to the door and stood in the golden Spanish sunshine! It was but the evening before that I had heard from the regiment. They were at Pastores, on the other side of the mountains, face to face with the English--not forty miles from me by road. But how was I to get to them? The same thrust which had pierced my ankle had slain my charger. I took advice both from Gomez, the landlord, and from an old priest who had slept that night in the inn, but neither of them could do more than assure me that there was not so much as a colt left upon the whole countryside. The landlord would not hear of my crossing the mountains without an escort, for he assured me that El Cuchillo, the Spanish guerilla chief, was out that way with his band, and that it meant a death by torture to fall into his hands. The old priest observed, however, that he did not think a French hussar would be deterred by that, and if I had had any doubts, they would of course have been decided by his remark. But a horse! How was I to get one? I was standing in the doorway, plotting and planning, when I heard the clink of shoes, and, looking up, I saw a great bearded man, with a blue cloak frogged across in military fashion, coming towards me. He was riding a big black horse with one white stocking on his near fore-leg. 'Halloa, comrade!' said I, as he came up to me. 'Halloa!' said he. 'I am Colonel Gerard, of the Hussars,' said I. 'I have lain here wounded for a month, and I am now ready to rejoin my regiment at Pastores.' 'I am Monsieur Vidal, of the commissariat,' he answered, 'and I am myself upon my way to Pastores. I should be glad to have your company, Colonel, for I hear that the mountains are far from safe.' 'Alas,' said I, 'I have no horse. But if you will sell me yours, I will promise that an escort of hussars shall be sent back for you.' He would not hear of it, and it was in vain that the landlord told him dreadful stories of the doings of El Cuchillo, and that I pointed out the duty which he owed to the army and to the country. He would not even argue, but called loudly for a cup of wine. I craftily asked him to dismount and to drink with me, but he must have seen something in my face, for he shook his head; and then, as I approached him with some thought of seizing him by the leg, he jerked his heels into his horse's flanks, and was off in a cloud of dust. My faith! it was enough to make a man mad to see this fellow riding away so gaily to join his beef-barrels, and his brandy-casks, and then to think of my five hundred beautiful hussars without their leader. I was gazing after him with bitter thoughts in my mind, when who should touch me on the elbow but the little priest whom I have mentioned. 'It is I who can help you,' he said. 'I am myself travelling south.' I put my arms about him and, as my ankle gave way at the same moment, we nearly rolled upon the ground together. 'Get me to Pastores,' I cried, 'and you shall have a rosary of golden beads.' I had taken one from the Convent of Spiritu Santo. It shows how necessary it is to take what you can when you are upon a campaign, and how the most unlikely things may become useful. 'I will take you,' he said, in very excellent French, 'not because I hope for any reward, but because it is my way always to do what I can to serve my fellow-man, and that is why I am so beloved wherever I go.' With that he led me down the village to an old cow-house, in which we found a tumble-down sort of diligence, such as they used to run early in this century, between some of our remote villages. There were three old mules, too, none of which were strong enough to carry a man, but together they might draw the coach. The sight of their gaunt ribs and spavined legs gave me more delight than the whole two hundred and twenty hunters of the Emperor which I have seen in their stalls at Fontainebleau. In ten minutes the owner was harnessing them into the coach, with no very good will, however, for he was in mortal dread of this terrible Cuchillo. It was only by promising him riches in this world, while the priest threatened him with perdition in the next, that we at last got him safely upon the box with the reins between his fingers. Then he was in such a hurry to get off, out of fear lest we should find ourselves in the dark in the passes, that he hardly gave me time to renew my vows to the innkeeper's daughter. I cannot at this moment recall her name, but we wept together as we parted, and I can remember that she was a very beautiful woman. You will understand, my friends, that when a man like me, who has fought the men and kissed the women in fourteen separate kingdoms, gives a word of praise to the one or the other, it has a little meaning of its own. The little priest had seemed a trifle grave when we kissed good-bye, but he soon proved himself the best of companions in the diligence. All the way he amused me with tales of his little parish up in the mountains, and I in my turn told him stories about the camp; but, my faith, I had to pick my steps, for when I said a word too much he would fidget in his seat and his face would show the pain that I had given him. And of course it is not the act of a gentleman to talk in anything but a proper manner to a religious man, though, with all the care in the world, one's words may get out of hand sometimes. He had come from the north of Spain, as he told me, and was going to see his mother in a village of Estremadura, and as he spoke about her little peasant home, and her joy in seeing him, it brought my own mother so vividly to my thoughts that the tears started to my eyes. In his simplicity he showed me the little gifts which he was taking to her, and so kindly was his manner that I could readily believe him when he said he was loved wherever he went. He examined my own uniform with as much curiosity as a child, admiring the plume of my busby, and passing his fingers through the sable with which my dolman was trimmed. He drew my sword, too, and then when I told him how many men I had cut down with it, and set my finger on the notch made by the shoulder-bone of the Russian Emperor's aide-de-camp, he shuddered and placed the weapon under the leathern cushion, declaring that it made him sick to look at it. Well, we had been rolling and creaking on our way whilst this talk had been going forward, and as we reached the base of the mountains we could hear the rumbling of cannon far away upon the right. This came from Massena, who was, as I knew, besieging Ciudad Rodrigo. There was nothing I should have wished better than to have gone straight to him, for if, as some said, he had Jewish blood in his veins, he was the best Jew that I have heard of since Joshua's time. If you were in sight of his beaky nose and bold, black eyes, you were not likely to miss much of what was going on. Still, a siege is always a poor sort of a pick-and-shovel business, and there were better prospects with my hussars in front of the English. Every mile that passed, my heart grew lighter and lighter, until I found myself shouting and singing like a young ensign fresh from St Cyr, just to think of seeing all my fine horses and my gallant fellows once more. As we penetrated the mountains the road grew rougher and the pass more savage. At first we had met a few muleteers, but now the whole country seemed deserted, which is not to be wondered at when you think that the French, the English, and the guerillas had each in turn had command over it. So bleak and wild was it, one great brown wrinkled cliff succeeding another, and the pass growing narrower and narrower, that I ceased to look out, but sat in silence, thinking of this and that, of women whom I had loved and of horses which I had handled. I was suddenly brought back from my dreams, however, by observing the difficulties of my companion, who was trying with a sort of brad-awl, which he had drawn out, to bore a hole through the leathern strap which held up his water-flask. As he worked with twitching fingers the strap escaped his grasp, and the wooden bottle fell at my feet. I stooped to pick it up, and as I did so the priest silently leaped upon my shoulders and drove his brad-awl into my eye! My friends, I am, as you know, a man steeled to face every danger. When one has served from the affair of Zurich to that last fatal day of Waterloo, and has had the special medal, which I keep at home in a leathern pouch, one can afford to confess when one is frightened. It may console some of you, when your own nerves play you tricks, to remember that you have heard even me, Brigadier Gerard, say that I have been scared. And besides my terror at this horrible attack, and the maddening pain of my wound, there was a sudden feeling of loathing such as you might feel were some filthy tarantula to strike its fangs into you. I clutched the creature in both hands, and, hurling him on to the floor of the coach, I stamped on him with my heavy boots. He had drawn a pistol from the front of his soutane, but I kicked it out of his hand, and again I fell with my knees upon his chest. Then, for the first time, he screamed horribly, while I, half blinded, felt about for the sword which he had so cunningly concealed. My hand had just lighted upon it, and I was dashing the blood from my face to see where he lay that I might transfix him, when the whole coach turned partly over upon its side, and my weapon was jerked out of my grasp by the shock. Before I could recover myself the door was burst open, and I was dragged by the heels on to the road. But even as I was torn out on to the flint stones, and realized that thirty ruffians were standing around me, I was filled with joy, for my pelisse had been pulled over my head in the struggle and was covering one of my eyes, and it was with my wounded eye that I was seeing this gang of brigands. You see for yourself by this pucker and scar how the thin blade passed between socket and ball, but it was only at that moment, when I was dragged from the coach, that I understood that my sight was not gone for ever. The creature's intention, doubtless, was to drive it through into my brain, and indeed he loosened some portion of the inner bone of my head, so that I afterwards had more trouble from that wound than from any one of the seventeen which I have received. They dragged me out, these sons of dogs, with curses and execrations, beating me with their fists and kicking me as I lay upon the ground. I had frequently observed that the mountaineers wore cloth swathed round their feet, but never did I imagine that I should have so much cause to be thankful for it. Presently, seeing the blood upon my head, and that I lay quiet, they thought that I was unconscious, whereas I was storing every ugly face among them into my memory, so that I might see them all safely hanged if ever my chance came round. Brawny rascals they were, with yellow handkerchiefs round their heads, and great red sashes stuffed with weapons. They had rolled two rocks across the path, where it took a sharp turn, and it was these which had torn off one of the wheels of the coach and upset us. As to this reptile, who had acted the priest so cleverly and had told me so much of his parish and his mother, he, of course, had known where the ambuscade was laid, and had attempted to put me beyond all resistance at the moment when we reached it. I cannot tell you how frantic their rage was when they drew him out of the coach and saw the state to which I had reduced him. If he had not got all his deserts, he had, at least, something as a souvenir of his meeting with Etienne Gerard, for his legs dangled aimlessly about, and though the upper part of his body was convulsed with rage and pain, he sat straight down upon his feet when they tried to set him upright. But all the time his two little black eyes, which had seemed so kindly and so innocent in the coach, were glaring at me like a wounded cat, and he spat, and spat, and spat in my direction. My faith! when the wretches jerked me on to my feet again, and when I was dragged off up one of the mountain paths, I understood that a time was coming when I was to need all my courage and resource. My enemy was carried upon the shoulders of two men behind me, and I could hear his hissing and his reviling, first in one ear and then in the other, as I was hurried up the winding track. I suppose that it must have been for an hour that we ascended, and what with my wounded ankle and the pain from my eye, and the fear lest this wound should have spoiled my appearance, I have made no journey to which I look back with less pleasure. I have never been a good climber at any time, but it is astonishing what you can do, even with a stiff ankle, when you have a copper-coloured brigand at each elbow and a nine-inch blade within touch of your whiskers. We came at last to a place where the path wound over a ridge, and descended upon the other side through thick pine-trees into a valley which opened to the south. In time of peace I had little doubt that the villains were all smugglers, and that these were the secret paths by which they crossed the Portuguese frontier. There were many mule-tracks, and once I was surprised to see the marks of a large horse where a stream had softened the track. These were explained when, on reaching a place where there was a clearing in the fir wood, I saw the animal itself haltered to a fallen tree. My eyes had hardly rested upon it, when I recognized the great black limbs and the white near fore-leg. It was the very horse which I had begged for in the morning. What, then, had become of Commissariat Vidal? Was it possible that there was another Frenchman in as perilous a plight as myself? The thought had hardly entered my head when our party stopped and one of them uttered a peculiar cry. It was answered from among the brambles which lined the base of a cliff at one side of a clearing, and an instant later ten or a dozen more brigands came out from amongst them, and the two parties greeted each other. The new-comers surrounded my friend of the brad-awl with cries of grief and sympathy, and then, turning upon me, they brandished their knives and howled at me like the gang of assassins that they were. So frantic were their gestures that I was convinced that my end had come, and was just bracing myself to meet it in a manner which should be worthy of my past reputation, when one of them gave an order and I was dragged roughly across the little glade to the brambles from which this new band had emerged. A narrow pathway led through them to a deep grotto in the side of the cliff. The sun was already setting outside, and in the cave itself it would have been quite dark but for a pair of torches which blazed from a socket on either side. Between them there was sitting at a rude table a very singular-looking person, whom I saw instantly, from the respect with which the others addressed him, could be none other than the brigand chief who had received, on account of his dreadful character, the sinister name of El Cuchillo. The man whom I had injured had been carried in and placed upon the top of a barrel, his helpless legs dangling about in front of him, and his cat's eyes still darting glances of hatred at me. I understood, from the snatches of talk which I could follow between the chief and him, that he was the lieutenant of the band, and that part of his duties was to lie in wait with his smooth tongue and his peaceful garb for travellers like myself. When I thought of how many gallant officers may have been lured to their death by this monster of hypocrisy, it gave me a glow of pleasure to think that I had brought his villainies to an end--though I feared it would be at the price of a life which neither the Emperor nor the army could well spare. As the injured man still supported upon the barrel by two comrades, was explaining in Spanish all that had befallen him, I was held by several of the villains in front of the table at which the chief was seated, and had an excellent opportunity of observing him. I have seldom seen any man who was less like my idea of a brigand, and especially of a brigand with such a reputation that in a land of cruelty he had earned so dark a nickname. His face was bluff and broad and bland, with ruddy cheeks and comfortable little tufts of side-whiskers, which gave him the appearance of a well-to-do grocer of the Rue St Antoine. He had not any of those flaring sashes or gleaming weapons which distinguished his followers, but on the contrary he wore a good broadcloth coat like a respectable father of a family, and save for his brown leggings there was nothing to indicate a life among the mountains. His surroundings, too, corresponded with himself, and beside his snuff-box upon the table there stood a great brown book, which looked like a commercial ledger. Many other books were ranged along a plank between two powder-casks, and there was a great litter of papers, some of which had verses scribbled upon them. All this I took in while he, leaning indolently back in his chair, was listening to the report of his lieutenant. Having heard everything, he ordered the cripple to be carried out again, and I was left with my three guards, waiting to hear my fate. He took up his pen, and tapping his forehead with the handle of it, he pursed up his lips and looked out of the corner of his eyes at the roof of the grotto. 'I suppose,' said he at last, speaking very excellent French, 'that you are not able to suggest a rhyme for the word Covilha.' I answered him that my acquaintance with the Spanish language was so limited that I was unable to oblige him. 'It is a rich language,' said he, 'but less prolific in rhymes than either the German or the English. That is why our best work has been done in blank verse, a form of composition which is capable of reaching great heights. But I fear that such subjects are somewhat outside the range of a hussar.' I was about to answer that if they were good enough for a guerilla, they could not be too much for the light cavalry, but he was already stooping over his half-finished verse. Presently he threw down the pen with an exclamation of satisfaction, and declaimed a few lines which drew a cry of approval from the three ruffians who held me. His broad face blushed like a young girl who receives her first compliment. 'The critics are in my favour, it appears,' said he; 'we amuse ourselves in our long evenings by singing our own ballads, you understand. I have some little facility in that direction, and I do not at all despair of seeing some of my poor efforts in print before long, and with "Madrid" upon the title-page, too. But we must get back to business. May I ask what your name is?' 'Etienne Gerard.' 'Rank?' 'Colonel.' 'Corps?' 'The Third Hussars of Conflans.' 'You are young for a colonel.' 'My career has been an eventful one.' 'Tut, that makes it the sadder,' said he, with his bland smile. I made no answer to that, but I tried to show him by my bearing that I was ready for the worst which could befall me. 'By the way, I rather fancy that we have had some of your corps here,' said he, turning over the pages of his big brown register. 'We endeavour to keep a record of our operations. Here is a heading under June 24th. Have you not a young officer named Soubiron, a tall, slight youth with light hair?' 'Certainly.' 'I see that we buried him upon that date.' 'Poor lad!' I cried. 'And how did he die?' 'We buried him.' 'But before you buried him?' 'You misunderstand me, Colonel. He was not dead before we buried him.' 'You buried him alive!' For a moment I was too stunned to act. Then I hurled myself upon the man, as he sat with that placid smile of his upon his lips, and I would have torn his throat out had the three wretches not dragged me away from him. Again and again I made for him, panting and cursing, shaking off this man and that, straining and wrenching, but never quite free. At last, with my jacket torn nearly off my back and blood dripping from my wrists, I was hauled backwards in the bight of a rope and cords passed round my ankles and my arms. 'You sleek hound!' I cried. 'If ever I have you at my sword's point, I will teach you to maltreat one of my lads. You will find, you bloodthirsty beast, that my Emperor has long arms, and though you lie here like a rat in its hole, the time will come when he will tear you out of it, and you and your vermin will perish together.' My faith, I have a rough side to my tongue, and there was not a hard word that I had learned in fourteen campaigns which I did not let fly at him; but he sat with the handle of his pen tapping against his forehead and his eyes squinting up at the roof as if he had conceived the idea of some new stanza. It was this occupation of his which showed me how I might get my point into him. 'You spawn!' said I; 'you think that you are safe here, but your life may be as short as that of your absurd verses, and God knows that it could not be shorter than that.' Ah, you should have seen him bound from his chair when I said the words. This vile monster, who dispensed death and torture as a grocer serves out his figs, had one raw nerve then which I could prod at pleasure. His face grew livid, and those little bourgeois side-whiskers quivered and thrilled with passion. 'Very good, Colonel. You have said enough,' he cried, in a choking voice. 'You say that you have had a very distinguished career. I promise you also a very distinguished ending. Colonel Etienne Gerard of the Third Hussars shall have a death of his own.' 'And I only beg,' said I, 'that you will not commemorate it in verse.' I had one or two little ironies to utter, but he cut me short by a furious gesture which caused my three guards to drag me from the cave. Our interview, which I have told you as nearly as I can remember it, must have lasted some time, for it was quite dark when we came out, and the moon was shining very clearly in the heavens. The brigands had lighted a great fire of the dried branches of the fir-trees; not, of course, for warmth, since the night was already very sultry, but to cook their evening meal. A huge copper pot hung over the blaze, and the rascals were lying all round in the yellow glare, so that the scene looked like one of those pictures which Junot stole out of Madrid. There are some soldiers who profess to care nothing for art and the like, but I have always been drawn towards it myself, in which respect I show my good taste and my breeding. I remember, for example, that when Lefebvre was selling the plunder after the fall of Danzig, I bought a very fine picture, called 'Nymphs Surprised in a Wood,' and I carried it with me through two campaigns, until my charger had the misfortune to put his hoof through it. I only tell you this, however, to show you that I was never a mere rough soldier like Rapp or Ney. As I lay in that brigands' camp, I had little time or inclination to think about such matters. They had thrown me down under a tree, the three villains squatting round and smoking their cigarettes within hands' touch of me. What to do I could not imagine. In my whole career I do not suppose that I have ten times been in as hopeless a situation. 'But courage,' thought I. 'Courage, my brave boy! You were not made a Colonel of Hussars at twenty-eight because you could dance a cotillon. You are a picked man, Etienne; a man who has come through more than two hundred affairs, and this little one is surely not going to be the last.' I began eagerly to glance about for some chance of escape, and as I did so I saw something which filled me with great astonishment. I have already told you that a large fire was burning in the centre of the glade. What with its glare, and what with the moonlight, everything was as clear as possible. On the other side of the glade there was a single tall fir-tree which attracted my attention because its trunk and lower branches were discoloured, as if a large fire had recently been lit underneath it. A clump of bushes grew in front of it which concealed the base. Well, as I looked towards it, I was surprised to see projecting above the bush, and fastened apparently to the tree, a pair of fine riding boots with the toes upwards. At first I thought that they were tied there, but as I looked harder I saw that they were secured by a great nail which was hammered through the foot of each. And then, suddenly, with a thrill of horror, I understood that these were not empty boots; and moving my head a little to the right, I was able to see who it was that had been fastened there, and why a fire had been lit beneath the tree. It is not pleasant to speak or to think of horrors, my friends, and I do not wish to give any of you bad dreams tonight--but I cannot take you among the Spanish guerillas without showing you what kind of men they were, and the sort of warfare that they waged. I will only say that I understood why Monsieur Vidal's horse was waiting masterless in the grove, and that I hoped he had met this terrible fate with sprightliness and courage, as a good Frenchman ought. It was not a very cheering sight for me, as you can imagine. When I had been with their chief in the grotto I had been so carried away by my rage at the cruel death of young Soubiron, who was one of the brightest lads who ever threw his thigh over a charger, that I had never given a thought to my own position. Perhaps it would have been more politic had I spoken the ruffian fair, but it was too late now. The cork was drawn and I must drain the wine. Besides, if the harmless commissariat man were put to such a death, what hope was there for me, who had snapped the spine of their lieutenant? No, I was doomed in any case, and it was as well perhaps that I should have put the best face on the matter. This beast could bear witness that Etienne Gerard had died as he had lived, and that one prisoner at least had not quailed before him. I lay there thinking of the various girls who would mourn for me, and of my dear old mother, and of the deplorable loss which I should be, both to my regiment and to the Emperor, and I am not ashamed to confess to you that I shed tears as I thought of the general consternation which my premature end would give rise to. But all the time I was taking the very keenest notice of everything which might possibly help me. I am not a man who would lie like a sick horse waiting for the farrier sergeant and the pole-axe. First I would give a little tug at my ankle cords, and then another at those which were round my wrists, and all the time that I was trying to loosen them I was peering round to see if I could find something which was in my favour. There was one thing which was very evident. A hussar is but half formed without a horse, and there was my other half quietly grazing within thirty yards of me. Then I observed yet another thing. The path by which we had come over the mountains was so steep that a horse could only be led across it slowly and with difficulty, but in the other direction the ground appeared to be more open, and to lead straight down into a gently-sloping valley. Had I but my feet in yonder stirrups and my sabre in my hand, a single bold dash might take me out of the power of these vermin of the rocks. I was still thinking it over and straining with my wrists and my ankles, when their chief came out from his grotto, and after some talk with his lieutenant, who lay groaning near the fire, they both nodded their heads and looked across at me. He then said some few words to the band, who clapped their hands and laughed uproariously. Things looked ominous, and I was delighted to feel that my hands were so far free that I could easily slip them through the cords if I wished. But with my ankles I feared that I could do nothing, for when I strained it brought such pain into my lance-wound that I had to gnaw my moustache to keep from crying out. I could only lie still, half-free and half-bound, and see what turn things were likely to take. For a little I could not make out what they were after. One of the rascals climbed up a well-grown fir-tree upon one side of the glade, and tied a rope round the top of the trunk. He then fastened another rope in the same fashion to a similar tree upon the other side. The two loose ends were now dangling down, and I waited with some curiosity, and just a little trepidation also, to see what they would do next. The whole band pulled upon one of the ropes until they had bent the strong young tree down into a semi-circle, and they then fastened it to a stump, so as to hold it so. When they had bent the other tree down in a similar fashion, the two summits were within a few feet of each other, though, as you understand, they would each spring back into their original position the instant that they were released. I already saw the diabolical plan which these miscreants had formed. 'I presume that you are a strong man, Colonel,' said the chief, coming towards me with his hateful smile. 'If you will have the kindness to loosen these cords,' I answered, 'I will show you how strong I am.' 'We were all interested to see whether you were as strong as these two young saplings,' said he. 'It is our intention, you see, to tie one end of each rope round your ankles and then let the trees go. If you are stronger than the trees, then, of course, no harm would be done; if, on the other hand, the trees are stronger than you, why, in that case, Colonel, we may have a souvenir of you upon each side of our little glade.' He laughed as he spoke, and at the sight of it the whole forty of them laughed also. Even now if I am in my darker humour, or if I have a touch of my old Lithuanian ague, I see in my sleep that ring of dark, savage faces, with their cruel eyes, and the firelight flashing upon their strong white teeth. It is astonishing--and I have heard many make the same remark--how acute one's senses become at such a crisis as this. I am convinced that at no moment is one living so vividly, so acutely, as at the instant when a violent and foreseen death overtakes one. I could smell the resinous fagots, I could see every twig upon the ground, I could hear every rustle of the branches, as I have never smelled or seen or heard save at such times of danger. And so it was that long before anyone else, before even the time when the chief had addressed me, I had heard a low, monotonous sound, far away indeed, and yet coming nearer at every instant. At first it was but a murmur, a rumble, but by the time he had finished speaking, while the assassins were untying my ankles in order to lead me to the scene of my murder, I heard, as plainly as ever I heard anything in my life, the clinking of horseshoes and the jingling of bridle-chains, with the clank of sabres against stirrup-irons. Is it likely that I, who had lived with the light cavalry since the first hair shaded my lip, would mistake the sound of troopers on the march? 'Help, comrades, help!' I shrieked, and though they struck me across the mouth and tried to drag me up to the trees, I kept on yelling, 'Help me, my brave boys! Help me, my children! They are murdering your colonel!' For the moment my wounds and my troubles had brought on a delirium, and I looked for nothing less than my five hundred hussars, kettle-drums and all, to appear at the opening of the glade. But that which really appeared was very different to anything which I had conceived. Into the clear space there came galloping a fine young man upon a most beautiful roan horse. He was fresh-faced and pleasant-looking, with the most debonair bearing in the world and the most gallant way of carrying himself--a way which reminded me somewhat of my own. He wore a singular coat which had once been red all over, but which was now stained to the colour of a withered oak-leaf wherever the weather could reach it. His shoulder-straps, however, were of golden lace, and he had a bright metal helmet upon his head, with a coquettish white plume upon one side of its crest. He trotted his horse up the glade, while behind him rode four cavaliers in the same dress--all clean-shaven, with round, comely faces, looking to me more like monks than dragoons. At a short, gruff order they halted with a rattle of arms, while their leader cantered forward, the fire beating upon his eager face and the beautiful head of his charger. I knew, of course, by the strange coats that they were English. It was the first sight that I had ever had of them, but from their stout bearing and their masterful way I could see at a glance that what I had always been told was true, and that they were excellent people to fight against. 'Well, well, well!' cried the young officer, in sufficiently bad French, 'what game are you up to here? Who was that who was yelling for help, and what are you trying to do to him?' It was at that moment that I learned to bless those months which Obriant, the descendant of the Irish kings, had spent in teaching me the tongue of the English. My ankles had just been freed, so that I had only to slip my hands out of the cords, and with a single rush I had flown across, picked up my sabre where it lay by the fire, and hurled myself on to the saddle of poor Vidal's horse. Yes, for all my wounded ankle, I never put foot to stirrup, but was in the seat in a single bound. I tore the halter from the tree, and before these villains could so much as snap a pistol at me I was beside the English officer. 'I surrender to you, sir,' I cried; though I daresay my English was not very much better than his French. 'If you will look at that tree to the left you will see what these villains do to the honourable gentlemen who fall into their hands.' The fire had flared up at that moment, and there was poor Vidal exposed before them, as horrible an object as one could see in a nightmare. 'Godam!' cried the officer, and 'Godam!' cried each of the four troopers, which is the same as with us when we cry 'Mon Dieu!' Out rasped the five swords, and the four men closed up. One, who wore a sergeant's chevrons, laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. 'Fight for your skin, froggy,' said he. Ah, it was so fine to have a horse between my thighs and a weapon in my grip. I waved it above my head and shouted in my exultation. The chief had come forward with that odious smiling face of his. 'Your excellency will observe that this Frenchman is our prisoner,' said he. 'You are a rascally robber,' said the Englishman, shaking his sword at him. 'It is a disgrace to us to have such allies. By my faith, if Lord Wellington were of my mind we would swing you up on the nearest tree.' 'But my prisoner?' said the brigand, in his suave voice. 'He shall come with us to the British camp.' 'Just a word in your ear before you take him.' He approached the young officer, and then turning as quick as a flash, he fired his pistol in my face. The bullet scored its way through my hair and burst a hole on each side of my busby. Seeing that he had missed me, he raised the pistol and was about to hurl it at me when the English sergeant, with a single back-handed cut, nearly severed his head from his body. His blood had not reached the ground, nor the last curse died on his lips, before the whole horde was upon us, but with a dozen bounds and as many slashes we were all safely out of the glade, and galloping down the winding track which led to the valley. It was not until we had left the ravine far behind us and were right out in the open fields that we ventured to halt, and to see what injuries we had sustained. For me, wounded and weary as I was, my heart was beating proudly, and my chest was nearly bursting my tunic to think that I, Etienne Gerard, had left this gang of murderers so much by which to remember me. My faith, they would think twice before they ventured again to lay hands upon one of the Third Hussars. So carried away was I that I made a small oration to these brave Englishmen, and told them who it was that they had helped to rescue. I would have spoken of glory also, and of the sympathies of brave men, but the officer cut me short. 'That's all right,' said he. 'Any injuries, Sergeant?' 'Trooper Jones's horse hit with a pistol bullet on the fetlock.' 'Trooper Jones to go with us. Sergeant Halliday, with troopers Harvey and Smith, to keep to the right until they touch the vedettes of the German Hussars.' So these three jingled away together, while the officer and I, followed at some distance by the trooper whose horse had been wounded, rode straight down in the direction of the English camp. Very soon we had opened our hearts, for we each liked the other from the beginning. He was of the nobility, this brave lad, and he had been sent out scouting by Lord Wellington to see if there were any signs of our advancing through the mountains. It is one advantage of a wandering life like mine, that you learn to pick up those bits of knowledge which distinguish the man of the world. I have, for example, hardly ever met a Frenchman who could repeat an English title correctly. If I had not travelled I should not be able to say with confidence that this young man's real name was Milor the Hon. Sir Russell, Bart., this last being an honourable distinction, so that it was as the Bart that I usually addressed him, just as in Spanish one might say 'the Don.' As we rode beneath the moonlight in the lovely Spanish night, we spoke our minds to each other, as if we were brothers. We were both of an age, you see, both of the light cavalry also (the Sixteenth Light Dragoons was his regiment), and both with the same hopes and ambitions. Never have I learned to know a man so quickly as I did the Bart. He gave me the name of a girl whom he had loved at a garden called Vauxhall, and, for my own part, I spoke to him of little Coralie, of the Opera. He took a lock of hair from his bosom, and I a garter. Then we nearly quarrelled over hussar and dragoon, for he was absurdly proud of his regiment, and you should have seen him curl his lip and clap his hand to his hilt when I said that I hoped it might never be its misfortune to come in the way of the Third. Finally, he began to speak about what the English call sport, and he told such stories of the money which he had lost over which of two cocks could kill the other, or which of two men could strike the other the most in a fight for a prize, that I was filled with astonishment. He was ready to bet upon anything in the most wonderful manner, and when I chanced to see a shooting star he was anxious to bet that he would see more than me, twenty-five francs a star, and it was only when I explained that my purse was in the hands of the brigands that he would give over the idea. Well, we chatted away in this very amiable fashion until the day began to break, when suddenly we heard a great volley of musketry from somewhere in front of us. It was very rocky and broken ground, and I thought, although I could see nothing, that a general engagement had broken out. The Bart laughed at my idea, however, and explained that the sound came from the English camp, where every man emptied his piece each morning so as to make sure of having a dry priming. 'In another mile we shall be up with the outposts,' said he. I glanced round at this, and I perceived that we had trotted along at so good a pace during the time that we were keeping up our pleasant chat, that the dragoon with the lame horse was altogether out of sight. I looked on every side, but in the whole of that vast rocky valley there was no one save only the Bart and I--both of us armed, you understand, and both of us well mounted. I began to ask myself whether after all it was quite necessary that I should ride that mile which would bring me to the British outposts. Now, I wish to be very clear with you on this point, my friends, for I would not have you think that I was acting dishonourably or ungratefully to the man who had helped me away from the brigands. You must remember that of all duties the strongest is that which a commanding officer owes to his men. You must also bear in mind that war is a game which is played under fixed rules, and when these rules are broken one must at once claim the forfeit. If, for example, I had given a parole, then I should have been an infamous wretch had I dreamed of escaping. But no parole had been asked of me. Out of over-confidence, and the chance of the lame horse dropping behind, the Bart had permitted me to get upon equal terms with him. Had it been I who had taken him, I should have used him as courteously as he had me, but, at the same time, I should have respected his enterprise so far as to have deprived him of his sword, and seen that I had at least one guard beside myself. I reined up my horse and explained this to him, asking him at the same time whether he saw any breach of honour in my leaving him. He thought about it, and several times repeated that which the English say when they mean 'Mon Dieu.' 'You would give me the slip, would you?' said he. 'If you can give no reason against it.' 'The only reason that I can think of,' said the Bart, 'is that I should instantly cut your head off if you were to attempt it.' 'Two can play at that game, my dear Bart,' said I. 'Then we'll see who can play at it best,' he cried, pulling out his sword. I had drawn mine also, but I was quite determined not to hurt this admirable young man who had been my benefactor. 'Consider,' said I, 'you say that I am your prisoner. I might with equal reason say that you are mine. We are alone here, and though I have no doubt that you are an excellent swordsman, you can hardly hope to hold your own against the best blade in the six light cavalry brigades.' His answer was a cut at my head. I parried and shore off half of his white plume. He thrust at my breast. I turned his point and cut away the other half of his cockade. 'Curse your monkey-tricks!' he cried, as I wheeled my horse away from him. 'Why should you strike at me?' said I. 'You see that I will not strike back.' 'That's all very well,' said he; 'but you've got to come along with me to the camp.' 'I shall never see the camp,' said I. 'I'll lay you nine to four you do,' he cried, as he made at me, sword in hand. But those words of his put something new into my head. Could we not decide the matter in some better way than fighting? The Bart was placing me in such a position that I should have to hurt him, or he would certainly hurt me. I avoided his rush, though his sword-point was within an inch of my neck. 'I have a proposal,' I cried. 'We shall throw dice as to which is the prisoner of the other.' He smiled at this. It appealed to his love of sport. 'Where are your dice?' he cried. 'I have none.' 'Nor I. But I have cards.' 'Cards let it be,' said I. 'And the game?' 'I leave it to you.' '�carté, then--the best of three.' I could not help smiling as I agreed, for I do not suppose that there were three men in France who were my masters at the game. I told the Bart as much as we dismounted. He smiled also as he listened. 'I was counted the best player at Watier's,' said he. 'With even luck you deserve to get off if you beat me.' So we tethered our two horses and sat down one on either side of a great flat rock. The Bart took a pack of cards out of his tunic, and I had only to see him shuffle to convince me that I had no novice to deal with. We cut, and the deal fell to him. My faith, it was a stake worth playing for. He wished to add a hundred gold pieces a game, but what was money when the fate of Colonel Etienne Gerard hung upon the cards? I felt as though all those who had reason to be interested in the game--my mother, my hussars, the Sixth Corps d'Armée, Ney, Massena, even the Emperor himself--were forming a ring round us in that desolate valley. Heavens, what a blow to one and all of them should the cards go against me! But I was confident, for my écarté play was as famous as my swordsmanship, and save old Bouvet of the Hussars of Bercheny, who won seventy-six out of one hundred and fifty games off me, I have always had the best of a series. The first game I won right off, though I must confess that the cards were with me, and that my adversary could have done no more. In the second, I never played better and saved a trick by a finesse, but the Bart voled me once, marked the king, and ran out in the second hand. My faith, we were so excited that he laid his helmet down beside him and I my busby. 'I'll lay my roan mare against your black horse,' said he. 'Done!' said I. 'Sword against sword.' 'Done!' said I. 'Saddle, bridle, and stirrups!' he cried. 'Done!' I shouted. I had caught this spirit of sport from him. I would have laid my hussars against his dragoons had they been ours to pledge. And then began the game of games. Oh, he played, this Englishman--he played in a way that was worthy of such a stake. But I, my friends, I was superb! Of the five which I had to make to win, I gained three on the first hand. The Bart bit his moustache and drummed his hands, while I already felt myself at the head of my dear little rascals. On the second, I turned the king, but lost two tricks--and my score was four to his two. When I saw my next hand I could not but give a cry of delight. 'If I cannot gain my freedom on this,' thought I, 'I deserve to remain for ever in chains.' Give me the cards, landlord, and I will lay them out on the table for you. Here was my hand: knave and ace of clubs, queen and knave of diamonds, and king of hearts. Clubs were trumps, mark you, and I had but one point between me and freedom. He knew it was the crisis, and he undid his tunic. I threw my dolman on the ground. He led the ten of spades. I took it with my ace of trumps. One point in my favour. The correct play was to clear the trumps, and I led the knave. Down came the queen upon it, and the game was equal. He led the eight of spades, and I could only discard my queen of diamonds. Then came the seven of spades, and the hair stood straight up on my head. We each threw down a king at the final. He had won two points, and my beautiful hand had been mastered by his inferior one. I could have rolled on the ground as I thought of it. They used to play very good écarté at Watier's in the year '10. I say it--I, Brigadier Gerard. The last game was now four all. This next hand must settle it one way or the other. He undid his sash, and I put away my sword-belt. He was cool, this Englishman, and I tried to be so also, but the perspiration would trickle into my eyes. The deal lay with him, and I may confess to you, my friends, that my hands shook so that I could hardly pick my cards from the rock. But when I raised them, what was the first thing that my eyes rested upon? It was the king, the king, the glorious king of trumps! My mouth was open to declare it when the words were frozen upon my lips by the appearance of my comrade. He held his cards in his hand, but his jaw had fallen, and his eyes were staring over my shoulder with the most dreadful expression of consternation and surprise. I whisked round, and I was myself amazed at what I saw. Three men were standing quite close to us--fifteen mètres at the farthest. The middle one was of a good height, and yet not too tall--about the same height, in fact, that I am myself. He was clad in a dark uniform with a small cocked hat, and some sort of white plume upon the side. But I had little thought of his dress. It was his face, his gaunt cheeks, his beak-like nose, his masterful blue eyes, his thin, firm slit of a mouth which made one feel that this was a wonderful man, a man of a million. His brows were tied into a knot, and he cast such a glance at my poor Bart from under them that one by one the cards came fluttering down from his nerveless fingers. Of the two other men, one, who had a face as brown and hard as though it had been carved out of old oak, wore a bright red coat, while the other, a fine portly man with bushy side-whiskers, was in a blue jacket with gold facings. Some little distance behind, three orderlies were holding as many horses, and an escort of dragoons was waiting in the rear. 'Heh, Crauford, what the deuce is this?' asked the thin man. 'D'you hear, sir?' cried the man with the red coat. 'Lord Wellington wants to know what this means.' My poor Bart broke into an account of all that had occurred, but that rock-face never softened for an instant. 'Pretty fine, 'pon my word, General Crauford,' he broke in. 'The discipline of this force must be maintained, sir. Report yourself at headquarters as a prisoner.' It was dreadful to me to see the Bart mount his horse and ride off with hanging head. I could not endure it. I threw myself before this English General. I pleaded with him for my friend. I told him how I, Colonel Gerard, would witness what a dashing young officer he was. Ah, my eloquence might have melted the hardest heart; I brought tears to my own eyes, but none to his. My voice broke, and I could say no more. 'What weight do you put on your mules, sir, in the French service?' he asked. Yes, that was all this phlegmatic Englishman had to answer to these burning words of mine. That was his reply to what would have made a Frenchman weep upon my shoulder. 'What weight on a mule?' asked the man with the red coat. 'Two hundred and ten pounds,' said I. 'Then you load them deucedly badly,' said Lord Wellington. 'Remove the prisoner to the rear.' His dragoons closed in upon me, and I--I was driven mad, as I thought that the game had been in my hands, and that I ought at that moment to be a free man. I held the cards up in front of the General. 'See, my lord!' I cried; 'I played for my freedom and I won, for, as you perceive, I hold the king.' For the first time a slight smile softened his gaunt face. 'On the contrary,' said he, as he mounted his horse, 'it is I who won, for, as you perceive, my King holds you.' 4. HOW THE KING HELD THE BRIGADIER Murat was undoubtedly an excellent cavalry officer, but he had too much swagger, which spoils many a good soldier. Lasalle, too, was a very dashing leader, but he ruined himself with wine and folly. Now I, Etienne Gerard, was always totally devoid of swagger, and at the same time I was very abstemious, except, maybe, at the end of a campaign, or when I met an old comrade-in-arms. For these reasons I might, perhaps, had it not been for a certain diffidence, have claimed to be the most valuable officer in my own branch of the Service. It is true that I never rose to be more than a chief of brigade, but then, as everyone knows, no one had a chance of rising to the top unless he had the good fortune to be with the Emperor in his early campaigns. Except Lasalle, and Labau, and Drouet, I can hardly remember any one of the generals who had not already made his name before the Egyptian business. Even I, with all my brilliant qualities, could only attain the head of my brigade, and also the special medal of honour, which I received from the Emperor himself, and which I keep at home in a leathern pouch. But though I never rose higher than this, my qualities were very well known to those who had served with me, and also to the English. After they had captured me in the way which I described to you the other night, they kept a very good guard over me at Oporto, and I promise you that they did not give such a formidable opponent a chance of slipping through their fingers. It was on the 10th of August that I was escorted on board the transport which was to take us to England, and behold me before the end of the month in the great prison which had been built for us at Dartmoor! 'L'hôtel Français, et Pension,' we used to call it, for you understand that we were all brave men there, and that we did not lose our spirits because we were in adversity. It was only those officers who refused to give their parole who were confined at Dartmoor, and most of the prisoners were seamen, or from the ranks. You ask me, perhaps, why it was that I did not give this parole, and so enjoy the same good treatment as most of my brother officers. Well, I had two reasons, and both of them were sufficiently strong. In the first place, I had so much confidence in myself, that I was quite convinced that I could escape. In the second, my family, though of good repute, has never been wealthy, and I could not bring myself to take anything from the small income of my mother. On the other hand, it would never do for a man like me to be outshone by the bourgeois society of an English country town, or to be without the means of showing courtesies and attentions to those ladies whom I should attract. It was for these reasons that I preferred to be buried in the dreadful prison of Dartmoor. I wish now to tell you of my adventures in England, and how far Milor Wellington's words were true when he said that his King would hold me. And first of all I may say that if it were not that I have set off to tell you about what befell myself, I could keep you here until morning with my stories about Dartmoor itself, and about the singular things which occurred there. It was one of the very strangest places in the whole world, for there, in the middle of that great desolate waste, were herded together seven or eight thousand men--warriors, you understand, men of experience and courage. Around there were a double wall and a ditch, and warders and soldiers; but, my faith! you could not coop men like that up like rabbits in a hutch! They would escape by twos and tens and twenties, and then the cannon would boom, and the search parties run, and we, who were left behind, would laugh and dance and shout 'Vive l'Empereur' until the warders would turn their muskets upon us in their passion. And then we would have our little mutinies, too, and up would come the infantry and the guns from Plymouth, and that would set us yelling 'Vive l'Empereur' once more, as though we wished them to hear us in Paris. We had lively moments at Dartmoor, and we contrived that those who were about us should be lively also. You must know that the prisoners there had their own Courts of Justice, in which they tried their own cases, and inflicted their own punishments. Stealing and quarrelling were punished--but most of all treachery. When I came there first there was a man, Meunier, from Rheims, who had given information of some plot to escape. Well, that night, owing to some form or other which had to be gone through, they did not take him out from among the other prisoners, and though he wept and screamed, and grovelled upon the ground, they left him there amongst the comrades whom he had betrayed. That night there was a trial with a whispered accusation and a whispered defence, a gagged prisoner, and a judge whom none could see. In the morning, when they came for their man with papers for his release, there was not as much of him left as you could put upon your thumb-nail. They were ingenious people, these prisoners, and they had their own way of managing. We officers, however, lived in a separate wing, and a very singular group of people we were. They had left us our uniforms, so that there was hardly a corps which had served under Victor, or Massena, or Ney, which was not represented there, and some had been there from the time when Junot was beaten at Vimiera. We had chasseurs in their green tunics, and hussars, like myself, and blue-coated dragoons, and white-fronted lancers, and voltigeurs, and grenadiers, and the men of the artillery and engineers. But the greater part were naval officers, for the English had had the better of us upon the seas. I could never understand this until I journeyed myself from Oporto to Plymouth, when I lay for seven days upon my back, and could not have stirred had I seen the eagle of the regiment carried off before my eyes. It was in perfidious weather like this that Nelson took advantage of us. I had no sooner got into Dartmoor than I began to plan to get out again, and you can readily believe that, with wits sharpened by twelve years of warfare, it was not very long before I saw my way. You must know, in the first place, that I had a very great advantage in having some knowledge of the English language. I learned it during the months that I spent before Danzig, from Adjutant Obriant, of the Regiment Irlandais, who was sprung from the ancient kings of the country. I was quickly able to speak it with some facility, for I do not take long to master anything to which I set my mind. In three months I could not only express my meaning, but I could use the idioms of the people. It was Obriant who taught me to say 'Be jabers,' just as we might say 'Ma foi'; and also 'The curse of Crummle!' which means 'Ventre bleu!' Many a time I have seen the English smile with pleasure when they have heard me speak so much like one of themselves. We officers were put two in a cell, which was very little to my taste, for my room-mate was a tall, silent man named Beaumont, of the Flying Artillery, who had been taken by the English cavalry at Astorga. It is seldom I meet a man of whom I cannot make a friend, for my disposition and manners are--as you know them. But this fellow had never a smile for my jests, nor an ear for my sorrows, but would sit looking at me with his sullen eyes, until sometimes I thought that his two years of captivity had driven him crazy. Ah, how I longed that old Bouvet, or any of my comrades of the hussars, was there, instead of this mummy of a man. But such as he was I had to make the best of him, and it was very evident that no escape could be made unless he were my partner in it, for what could I possibly do without him observing me? I hinted at it, therefore, and then by degrees I spoke more plainly, until it seemed to me that I had prevailed upon him to share my lot. I tried the walls, and I tried the floor, and I tried the ceiling, but though I tapped and probed, they all appeared to be very thick and solid. The door was of iron, shutting with a spring lock, and provided with a small grating, through which a warder looked twice in every night. Within there were two beds, two stools, two washstands--nothing more. It was enough for my wants, for when had I had as much during those twelve years spent in camps? But how was I to get out? Night after night I thought of my five hundred hussars, and had dreadful nightmares, in which I fancied that the whole regiment needed shoeing, or that my horses were all bloated with green fodder, or that they were foundered from bogland, or that six squadrons were clubbed in the presence of the Emperor. Then I would awake in a cold sweat, and set to work picking and tapping at the walls once more; for I knew very well that there is no difficulty which cannot be overcome by a ready brain and a pair of cunning hands. There was a single window in our cell, which was too small to admit a child. It was further defended by a thick iron bar in the centre. It was not a very promising point of escape, as you will allow, but I became more and more convinced that our efforts must be directed towards it. To make matters worse, it only led out into the exercise yard, which was surrounded by two high walls. Still, as I said to my sullen comrade, it is time to talk of the Vistula when you are over the Rhine. I got a small piece of iron, therefore, from the fittings of my bed, and I set to work to loosen the plaster at the top and the bottom of the bar. Three hours I would work, and then leap into my bed upon the sound of the warder's step. Then another three hours, and then very often another yet, for I found that Beaumont was so slow and clumsy at it that it was on myself only that I could rely. I pictured to myself my Third of Hussars waiting just outside that window, with kettle-drums and standards and leopard-skin schabraques all complete. Then I would work like a madman, until my iron was crusted with blood, as if with rust. And so, night by night, I loosened that stony plaster, and hid it away in the stuffing of my pillow, until the hour came when the iron shook; and then with one good wrench it came off in my hand, and my first step had been made towards freedom. You will ask me what better off I was, since, as I have said, a child could not have fitted through the opening. I will tell you. I had gained two things--a tool and a weapon. With the one I might loosen the stone which flanked the window. With the other I might defend myself when I had scrambled through. So now I turned my attention to that stone, and I picked and picked with the sharpened end of my bar until I had worked out the mortar all round. You understand, of course, that during the day I replaced everything in its position, and that the warder was never permitted to see a speck upon the floor. At the end of three weeks I had separated the stone, and had the rapture of drawing it through, and seeing a hole left with ten stars shining through it, where there had been but four before. All was ready for us now, and I had replaced the stone, smearing the edges of it round with a little fat and soot, so as to hide the cracks where the mortar should have been. In three nights the moon would be gone, and that seemed the best time for our attempt. I had now no doubt at all about getting into the yards, but I had very considerable misgivings as to how I was to get out again. It would be too humiliating, after trying here, and trying there, to have to go back to my hole again in despair, or to be arrested by the guards outside, and thrown into those damp underground cells which are reserved for prisoners who are caught in escaping. I set to work, therefore, to plan what I should do. I have never, as you know, had the chance of showing what I could do as a general. Sometimes, after a glass or two of wine, I have found myself capable of thinking out surprising combinations, and have felt that if Napoleon had intrusted me with an army corps, things might have gone differently with him. But however that may be, there is no doubt that in the small stratagems of war, and in that quickness of invention which is so necessary for an officer of light cavalry, I could hold my own against anyone. It was now that I had need of it, and I felt sure that it would not fail me. The inner wall which I had to scale was built of bricks, 12ft. high, with a row of iron spikes, 3in. apart upon the top. The outer I had only caught a glimpse of once or twice, when the gate of the exercise yard was open. It appeared to be about the same height, and was also spiked at the top. The space between the walls was over twenty feet, and I had reason to believe that there were no sentries there, except at the gates. On the other hand, I knew that there was a line of soldiers outside. Behold the little nut, my friends, which I had to open with no crackers, save these two hands. One thing upon which I relied was the height of my comrade Beaumont. I have already said that he was a very tall man, six feet at least, and it seemed to me that if I could mount upon his shoulders, and get my hands upon the spikes, I could easily scale the wall. Could I pull my big companion up after me? That was the question, for when I set forth with a comrade, even though it be one for whom I bear no affection, nothing on earth would make me abandon him. If I climbed the wall and he could not follow me, I should be compelled to return to him. He did not seem to concern himself much about it, however, so I hoped that he had confidence in his own activity. Then another very important matter was the choice of the sentry who should be on duty in front of my window at the time of our attempt. They were changed every two hours to insure their vigilance, but I, who watched them closely each night out of my window, knew that there was a great difference between them. There were some who were so keen that a rat could not cross the yard unseen, while others thought only of their own ease, and could sleep as soundly leaning upon a musket as if they were at home upon a feather bed. There was one especially, a fat, heavy man, who would retire into the shadow of the wall and doze so comfortably during his two hours, that I have dropped pieces of plaster from my window at his very feet, without his observing it. By good luck, this fellow's watch was due from twelve to two upon the night which we had fixed upon for our enterprise. As the last day passed, I was so filled with nervous agitation that I could not control myself, but ran ceaselessly about my cell, like a mouse in a cage. Every moment I thought that the warder would detect the looseness of the bar, or that the sentry would observe the unmortared stone, which I could not conceal outside, as I did within. As for my companion, he sat brooding upon the end of his bed, looking at me in a sidelong fashion from time to time, and biting his nails like one who is deep in thought. 'Courage, my friend!' I cried, slapping him upon the shoulder. 'You will see your guns before another month be past.' 'That is very well,' said he. 'But whither will you fly when you get free?' 'To the coast,' I answered. 'All comes right for a brave man, and I shall make straight for my regiment.' 'You are more likely to make straight for the underground cells, or for the Portsmouth hulks,' said he. 'A soldier takes his chances,' I remarked. 'It is only the poltroon who reckons always upon the worst.' I raised a flush in each of his sallow cheeks at that, and I was glad of it, for it was the first sign of spirit which I had ever observed in him. For a moment he put his hand out towards his water-jug, as though he would have hurled it at me, but then he shrugged his shoulders and sat in silence once more, biting his nails, and scowling down at the floor. I could not but think, as I looked at him, that perhaps I was doing the Flying Artillery a very bad service by bringing him back to them. I never in my life have known an evening pass as slowly as that one. Towards nightfall a wind sprang up, and as the darkness deepened it blew harder and harder, until a terrible gale was whistling over the moor. As I looked out of my window I could not catch a glimpse of a star, and the black clouds were flying low across the heavens. The rain was pouring down, and what with its hissing and splashing, and the howling and screaming of the wind, it was impossible for me to hear the steps of the sentinels. 'If I cannot hear them,' thought I, 'then it is unlikely that they can hear me'; and I waited with the utmost impatience until the time when the inspector should have come round for his nightly peep through our grating. Then having peered through the darkness, and seen nothing of the sentry, who was doubtless crouching in some corner out of the rain, I felt that the moment was come. I removed the bar, pulled out the stone, and motioned to my companion to pass through. 'After you, Colonel,' said he. 'Will you not go first?' I asked. 'I had rather you showed me the way.' 'Come after me, then, but come silently, as you value your life.' In the darkness I could hear the fellow's teeth chattering, and I wondered whether a man ever had such a partner in a desperate enterprise. I seized the bar, however, and mounting upon my stool, I thrust my head and shoulders into the hole. I had wriggled through as far as my waist, when my companion seized me suddenly by the knees, and yelled at the top of his voice: 'Help! Help! A prisoner is escaping!' Ah, my friends, what did I not feel at that moment! Of course, I saw in an instant the game of this vile creature. Why should he risk his skin in climbing walls when he might be sure of a free pardon from the English for having prevented the escape of one so much more distinguished than himself? I had recognized him as a poltroon and a sneak, but I had not understood the depth of baseness to which he could descend. One who has spent his life among gentlemen and men of honour does not think of such things until they happen. The blockhead did not seem to understand that he was lost more certainly than I. I writhed back in the darkness, and seizing him by the throat, I struck him twice with my iron bar. At the first blow he yelped as a little cur does when you tread upon its paw. At the second, down he fell with a groan upon the floor. Then I seated myself upon my bed, and waited resignedly for whatever punishment my gaolers might inflict upon me. But a minute passed and yet another, with no sound save the heavy, snoring breathing of the senseless wretch upon the floor. Was it possible, then, that amid the fury of the storm his warning cries had passed unheeded? At first it was but a tiny hope, another minute and it was probable, another and it was certain. There was no sound in the corridor, none in the courtyard. I wiped the cold sweat from my brow, and asked myself what I should do next. One thing seemed certain. The man on the floor must die. If I left him I could not tell how short a time it might be before he gave the alarm. I dare not strike a light, so I felt about in the darkness until my hand came upon something wet, which I knew to be his head. I raised my iron bar, but there was something, my friends, which prevented me from bringing it down. In the heat of fight I have slain many men--men of honour, too, who had done me no injury. Yet here was this wretch, a creature too foul to live, who had tried to work me so great a mischief, and yet I could not bring myself to crush his skull in. Such deeds are very well for a Spanish partida--or for that matter a sansculotte of the Faubourg St Antoine--but not for a soldier and a gentleman like me. However, the heavy breathing of the fellow made me hope that it might be a very long time before he recovered his senses. I gagged him, therefore, and bound him with strips of blanket to the bed, so that in his weakened condition there was good reason to think that, in any case, he might not get free before the next visit of the warder. But now again I was faced with new difficulties, for you will remember that I had relied upon his height to help me over the walls. I could have sat down and shed tears of despair had not the thought of my mother and of the Emperor come to sustain me. 'Courage!' said I. 'If it were anyone but Etienne Gerard he would be in a bad fix now; that is a young man who is not so easily caught.' I set to work therefore upon Beaumont's sheet as well as my own, and by tearing them into strips and then plaiting them together, I made a very excellent rope. This I tied securely to the centre of my iron bar, which was a little over a foot in length. Then I slipped out into the yard, where the rain was pouring and the wind screaming louder than ever. I kept in the shadow of the prison wall, but it was as black as the ace of spades, and I could not see my own hand in front of me. Unless I walked into the sentinel I felt that I had nothing to fear from him. When I had come under the wall I threw up my bar, and to my joy it stuck the very first time between the spikes at the top. I climbed up my rope, pulled it after me, and dropped down on the other side. Then I scaled the second wall, and was sitting astride among the spikes upon the top, when I saw something twinkle in the darkness beneath me. It was the bayonet of the sentinel below, and so close was it (the second wall being rather lower than the first) that I could easily, by leaning over, have unscrewed it from its socket. There he was, humming a tune to himself, and cuddling up against the wall to keep himself warm, little thinking that a desperate man within a few feet of him was within an ace of stabbing him to the heart with his own weapon. I was already bracing myself for the spring when the fellow, with an oath, shouldered his musket, and I heard his steps squelching through the mud as he resumed his beat. I slipped down my rope, and, leaving it hanging, I ran at the top of my speed across the moor. Heavens, how I ran! The wind buffeted my face and buzzed in my nostrils. The rain pringled upon my skin and hissed past my ears. I stumbled into holes. I tripped over bushes. I fell among brambles. I was torn and breathless and bleeding. My tongue was like leather, my feet like lead, and my heart beating like a kettle-drum. Still I ran, and I ran, and I ran. But I had not lost my head, my friends. Everything was done with a purpose. Our fugitives always made for the coast. I was determined to go inland, and the more so as I had told Beaumont the opposite. I would fly to the north, and they would seek me in the south. Perhaps you will ask me how I could tell which was which on such a night. I answer that it was by the wind. I had observed in the prison that it came from the north, and so, as long as I kept my face to it, I was going in the right direction. Well, I was rushing along in this fashion when, suddenly, I saw two yellow lights shining out of the darkness in front of me. I paused for a moment, uncertain what I should do. I was still in my hussar uniform, you understand, and it seemed to me that the very first thing that I should aim at was to get some dress which should not betray me. If these lights came from a cottage, it was probable enough that I might find what I wanted there. I approached, therefore, feeling very sorry that I had left my iron bar behind; for I was determined to fight to the death before I should be retaken. But very soon I found that there was no cottage there. The lights were two lamps hung upon each side of a carriage, and by their glare I saw that a broad road lay in front of me. Crouching among the bushes, I observed that there were two horses to the equipage, that a small post-boy was standing at their heads, and that one of the wheels was lying in the road beside him. I can see them now, my friends: the steaming creatures, the stunted lad with his hands to their bits, and the big, black coach, all shining with the rain, and balanced upon its three wheels. As I looked, the window was lowered, and a pretty little face under a bonnet peeped out from it. 'What shall I do?' the lady cried to the post-boy, in a voice of despair. 'Sir Charles is certainly lost, and I shall have to spend the night upon the moor.' 'Perhaps I can be of some assistance to madame,' said I, scrambling out from among the bushes into the glare of the lamps. A woman in distress is a sacred thing to me, and this one was beautiful. You must not forget that, although I was a colonel, I was only eight-and-twenty years of age. My word, how she screamed, and how the post-boy stared! You will understand that after that long race in the darkness, with my shako broken in, my face smeared with dirt, and my uniform all stained and torn with brambles, I was not entirely the sort of gentleman whom one would choose to meet in the middle of a lonely moor. Still, after the first surprise, she soon understood that I was her very humble servant, and I could even read in her pretty eyes that my manner and bearing had not failed to produce an impression upon her. 'I am sorry to have startled you, madame,' said I. 'I chanced to overhear your remark, and I could not refrain from offering you my assistance.' I bowed as I spoke. You know my bow, and can realize what its effect was upon the lady. 'I am much indebted to you, sir,' said she. 'We have had a terrible journey since we left Tavistock. Finally, one of our wheels came off, and here we are helpless in the middle of the moor. My husband, Sir Charles, has gone on to get help, and I much fear that he must have lost his way.' I was about to attempt some consolation, when I saw beside the lady a black travelling coat, faced with astrakhan, which her companion must have left behind him. It was exactly what I needed to conceal my uniform. It is true that I felt very much like a highway robber, but then, what would you have? Necessity has no law, and I was in an enemy's country. 'I presume, madame, that this is your husband's coat,' I remarked. 'You will, I am sure, forgive me, if I am compelled to--' I pulled it through the window as I spoke. I could not bear to see the look of surprise and fear and disgust which came over her face. 'Oh, I have been mistaken in you!' she cried. 'You came to rob me, then, and not to help me. You have the bearing of a gentleman, and yet you steal my husband's coat.' 'Madame,' said I, 'I beg that you will not condemn me until you know everything. It is quite necessary that I should take this coat, but if you will have the goodness to tell me who it is who is fortunate enough to be your husband, I shall see that the coat is sent back to him.' Her face softened a little, though she still tried to look severe. 'My husband,' she answered, 'is Sir Charles Meredith, and he is travelling to Dartmoor Prison, upon important Government business. I only ask you, sir, to go upon your way, and to take nothing which belongs to him.' 'There is only one thing which belongs to him that I covet,' said I. 'And you have taken it from the carriage,' she cried. 'No,' I answered. 'It still remains there.' She laughed in her frank English way. 'If, instead of paying me compliments, you were to return my husband's coat--' she began. 'Madame,' I answered, 'what you ask is quite impossible. If you will allow me to come into the carriage, I will explain to you how necessary this coat is to me.' Heaven knows into what foolishness I might have plunged myself had we not, at this instant, heard a faint halloa in the distance, which was answered by a shout from the little post-boy. In the rain and the darkness, I saw a lantern some distance from us, but approaching rapidly. 'I am sorry, madame, that I am forced to leave you,' said I. 'You can assure your husband that I shall take every care of his coat.' Hurried as I was, I ventured to pause a moment to salute the lady's hand, which she snatched through the window with an admirable pretence of being offended at my presumption. Then, as the lantern was quite close to me, and the post-boy seemed inclined to interfere with my flight, I tucked my precious overcoat under my arm, and dashed off into the darkness. And now I set myself to the task of putting as broad a stretch of moor between the prison and myself as the remaining hours of darkness would allow. Setting my face to the wind once more, I ran until I fell from exhaustion. Then, after five minutes of panting among the heather, I made another start, until again my knees gave way beneath me. I was young and hard, with muscles of steel, and a frame which had been toughened by twelve years of camp and field. Thus I was able to keep up this wild flight for another three hours, during which I still guided myself, you understand, by keeping the wind in my face. At the end of that time I calculated that I had put nearly twenty miles between the prison and myself. Day was about to break, so I crouched down among the heather upon the top of one of those small hills which abound in that country, with the intention of hiding myself until nightfall. It was no new thing for me to sleep in the wind and the rain, so, wrapping myself up in my thick warm cloak, I soon sank into a doze. But it was not a refreshing slumber. I tossed and tumbled amid a series of vile dreams, in which everything seemed to go wrong with me. At last, I remember, I was charging an unshaken square of Hungarian Grenadiers, with a single squadron upon spent horses, just as I did at Elchingen. I stood in my stirrups to shout 'Vive l'Empereur!' and as I did so, there came the answering roar from my hussars, 'Vive l'Empereur!' I sprang from my rough bed, with the words still ringing in my ears, and then, as I rubbed my eyes, and wondered if I were mad, the same cry came again, five thousand voices in one long-drawn yell. I looked out from my screen of brambles, and saw in the clear light of morning the very last thing that I should either have expected or chosen. It was Dartmoor Prison! There it stretched, grim and hideous, within a furlong of me. Had I run on for a few more minutes in the dark, I should have butted my shako against the wall. I was so taken aback at the sight, that I could scarcely realize what had happened. Then it all became clear to me, and I struck my head with my hands in my despair. The wind had veered from north to south during the night, and I, keeping my face always towards it, had run ten miles out and ten miles in, winding up where I had started. When I thought of my hurry, my falls, my mad rushing and jumping, all ending in this, it seemed so absurd, that my grief changed suddenly to amusement, and I fell among the brambles, and laughed, and laughed, until my sides were sore. Then I rolled myself up in my cloak and considered seriously what I should do. One lesson which I have learned in my roaming life, my friends, is never to call anything a misfortune until you have seen the end of it. Is not every hour a fresh point of view? In this case I soon perceived that accident had done for me as much as the most profound cunning. My guards naturally commenced their search from the place where I had taken Sir Charles Meredith's coat, and from my hiding-place I could see them hurrying along the road to that point. Not one of them ever dreamed that I could have doubled back from there, and I lay quite undisturbed in the little bush-covered cup at the summit of my knoll. The prisoners had, of course, learned of my escape, and all day exultant yells, like that which had aroused me in the morning, resounded over the moor, bearing a welcome message of sympathy and companionship to my ears. How little did they dream that on the top of that very mound, which they could see from their windows, was lying the comrade whose escape they were celebrating? As for me--I could look down upon this poor herd of idle warriors, as they paced about the great exercise yard, or gathered in little groups, gesticulating joyfully over my success. Once I heard a howl of execration, and I saw Beaumont, his head all covered with bandages, being led across the yard by two of the warders. I cannot tell you the pleasure which this sight gave me, for it proved that I had not killed him, and also that the others knew the true story of what had passed. They had all known me too well to think that I could have abandoned him. All that long day I lay behind my screen of bushes, listening to the bells which struck the hours below. My pockets were filled with bread which I had saved out of my allowance, and on searching my borrowed overcoat I came upon a silver flask, full of excellent brandy and water, so that I was able to get through the day without hardship. The only other things in the pockets were a red silk handkerchief, a tortoise-shell snuff-box, and a blue envelope, with a red seal, addressed to the Governor of Dartmoor Prison. As to the first two, I determined to send them back when I should return the coat itself. The letter caused me more perplexity, for the Governor had always shown me every courtesy, and it offended my sense of honour that I should interfere with his correspondence. I had almost made up my mind to leave it under a stone upon the roadway within musket-shot of the gate. This would guide them in their search for me, however, and so, on the whole, I saw no better way than just to carry the letter with me in the hope that I might find some means of sending it back to him. Meanwhile I packed it safely away in my inner-most pocket. There was a warm sun to dry my clothes, and when night fell I was ready for my journey. I promise you that there were no mistakes this time. I took the stars for my guides, as every hussar should be taught to do, and I put eight good leagues between myself and the prison. My plan now was to obtain a complete suit of clothes from the first person whom I could waylay, and I should then find my way to the north coast, where there were many smugglers and fishermen who would be ready to earn the reward which was paid by the Emperor to those who brought escaping prisoners across the Channel. I had taken the panache from my shako so that it might escape notice, but even with my fine overcoat I feared that sooner or later my uniform would betray me. My first care must be to provide myself with a complete disguise. When day broke, I saw a river upon my right and a small town upon my left--the blue smoke reeking up above the moor. I should have liked well to have entered it, because it would have interested me to see something of the customs of the English, which differ very much from those of other nations. Much as I should have wished, however, to have seen them eat their raw meat and sell their wives, it would have been dangerous until I had got rid of my uniform. My cap, my moustache, and my speech would all help to betray me. I continued to travel towards the north therefore, looking about me continually, but never catching a glimpse of my pursuers. About midday I came to where, in a secluded valley, there stood a single small cottage without any other building in sight. It was a neat little house, with a rustic porch and a small garden in front of it, with a swarm of cocks and hens. I lay down among the ferns and watched it, for it seemed to be exactly the kind of place where I might obtain what I wanted. My bread was finished, and I was exceedingly hungry after my long journey; I determined, therefore, to make a short reconnaissance, and then to march up to this cottage, summon it to surrender, and help myself to all that I needed. It could at least provide me with a chicken and with an omelette. My mouth watered at the thought. As I lay there, wondering who could live in this lonely place, a brisk little fellow came out through the porch, accompanied by another older man, who carried two large clubs in his hands. These he handed to his young companion, who swung them up and down, and round and round, with extraordinary swiftness. The other, standing beside him, appeared to watch him with great attention, and occasionally to advise him. Finally he took a rope, and began skipping like a girl, the other still gravely observing him. As you may think, I was utterly puzzled as to what these people could be, and could only surmise that the one was a doctor, and the other a patient who had submitted himself to some singular method of treatment. Well, as I lay watching and wondering, the older man brought out a great-coat, and held it while the other put it on and buttoned it to his chin. The day was a warmish one, so that this proceeding amazed me even more than the other. 'At least,' thought I, 'it is evident that his exercise is over'; but, far from this being so, the man began to run, in spite of his heavy coat, and as it chanced, he came right over the moor in my direction. His companion had re-entered the house, so that this arrangement suited me admirably. I would take the small man's clothing, and hurry on to some village where I could buy provisions. The chickens were certainly tempting, but still there were at least two men in the house, so perhaps it would be wiser for me, since I had no arms, to keep away from it. I lay quietly then among the ferns. Presently I heard the steps of the runner, and there he was quite close to me, with his huge coat, and the perspiration running down his face. He seemed to be a very solid man--but small--so small that I feared that his clothes might be of little use to me. When I jumped out upon him he stopped running, and looked at me in the greatest astonishment. 'Blow my dickey,' said he, 'give it a name, guv'nor! Is it a circus, or what?' That was how he talked, though I cannot pretend to tell you what he meant by it. 'You will excuse me, sir,' said I, 'but I am under the necessity of asking you to give me your clothes.' 'Give you what?' he cried. 'Your clothes.' 'Well, if this don't lick cock-fighting!' said he. 'What am I to give you my clothes for?' 'Because I need them.' 'And suppose I won't?' 'Be jabers,' said I, 'I shall have no choice but to take them.' He stood with his hands in the pockets of his great-coat, and a most amused smile upon his square-jawed, clean-shaven face. 'You'll take them, will you?' said he. 'You're a very leery cove, by the look of you, but I can tell you that you've got the wrong sow by the ear this time. I know who you are. You're a runaway Frenchy, from the prison yonder, as anyone could tell with half an eye. But you don't know who I am, else you wouldn't try such a plant as that. Why, man, I'm the Bristol Bustler, nine stone champion, and them's my training quarters down yonder.' He stared at me as if this announcement of his would have crushed me to the earth, but I smiled at him in my turn, and looked him up and down, with a twirl of my moustache. 'You may be a very brave man, sir,' said I, 'but when I tell you that you are opposed to Colonel Etienne Gerard, of the Hussars of Conflans, you will see the necessity of giving up your clothes without further parley.' 'Look here, mounseer, drop it!' he cried; 'this'll end by your getting pepper.' 'Your clothes, sir, this instant!' I shouted, advancing fiercely upon him. For answer he threw off his heavy great-coat, and stood in a singular attitude, with one arm out, and the other across his chest, looking at me with a curious smile. For myself, I knew nothing of the methods of fighting which these people have, but on horse or on foot, with arms or without them, I am always ready to take my own part. You understand that a soldier cannot always choose his own methods, and that it is time to howl when you are living among wolves. I rushed at him, therefore, with a warlike shout, and kicked him with both my feet. At the same moment my heels flew into the air, I saw as many flashes as at Austerlitz, and the back of my head came down with a crash upon a stone. After that I can remember nothing more. When I came to myself I was lying upon a truckle-bed, in a bare, half-furnished room. My head was ringing like a bell, and when I put up my hand, there was a lump like a walnut over one of my eyes. My nose was full of a pungent smell, and I soon found that a strip of paper soaked in vinegar was fastened across my brow. At the other end of the room this terrible little man was sitting with his knee bare, and his elderly companion was rubbing it with some liniment. The latter seemed to be in the worst of tempers, and he kept up a continual scolding, which the other listened to with a gloomy face. 'Never heard tell of such a thing in my life,' he was saying. 'In training for a month with all the weight of it on my shoulders, and then when I get you as fit as a trout, and within two days of fighting the likeliest man on the list, you let yourself into a by-battle with a foreigner.' 'There, there! Stow your gab!' said the other, sulkily. 'You're a very good trainer, Jim, but you'd be better with less jaw.' 'I should think it was time to jaw,' the elderly man answered. 'If this knee don't get well before next Wednesday, they'll have it that you fought a cross, and a pretty job you'll have next time you look for a backer.' 'Fought a cross!' growled the other. 'I've won nineteen battles, and no man ever so much as dared to say the word "cross" in my hearin'. How the deuce was I to get out of it when the cove wanted the very clothes off my back?' 'Tut, man; you knew that the beak and the guards were within a mile of you. You could have set them on to him as well then as now. You'd have got your clothes back again all right.' 'Well, strike me!' said the Bustler. 'I don't often break my trainin', but when it comes to givin' up my clothes to a Frenchy who couldn't hit a dint in a pat o' butter, why, it's more than I can swaller.' 'Pooh, man, what are the clothes worth? D'you know that Lord Rufton alone has five thousand pounds on you? When you jump the ropes on Wednesday, you'll carry every penny of fifty thousand into the ring. A pretty thing to turn up with a swollen knee and a story about a Frenchman!' 'I never thought he'd ha' kicked,' said the Bustler. 'I suppose you expected he'd fight Broughton's rules, and strict P.R.? Why, you silly, they don't know what fighting is in France.' 'My friends,' said I, sitting up on my bed, 'I do not understand very much of what you say, but when you speak like that it is foolishness. We know so much about fighting in France, that we have paid our little visit to nearly every capital in Europe, and very soon we are coming to London. But we fight like soldiers, you understand, and not like gamins in the gutter. You strike me on the head. I kick you on the knee. It is child's play. But if you will give me a sword, and take another one, I will show you how we fight over the water.' They both stared at me in their solid, English way. 'Well, I'm glad you're not dead, mounseer,' said the elder one at last. 'There wasn't much sign of life in you when the Bustler and me carried you down. That head of yours ain't thick enough to stop the crook of the hardest hitter in Bristol.' 'He's a game cove, too, and he came for me like a bantam,' said the other, still rubbing his knee. 'I got my old left-right in, and he went over as if he had been pole-axed. It wasn't my fault, mounseer. I told you you'd get pepper if you went on.' 'Well, it's something to say all your life, that you've been handled by the finest light-weight in England,' said the older man, looking at me with an expression of congratulation upon his face. 'You've had him at his best, too--in the pink of condition, and trained by Jim Hunter.' 'I am used to hard knocks,' said I, unbuttoning my tunic, and showing my two musket wounds. Then I bared my ankle also, and showed the place in my eye where the guerilla had stabbed me. 'He can take his gruel,' said the Bustler. 'What a glutton he'd have made for the middle-weights,' remarked the trainer; 'with six months' coaching he'd astonish the fancy. It's a pity he's got to go back to prison.' I did not like that last remark at all. I buttoned up my coat and rose from the bed. 'I must ask you to let me continue my journey,' said I. 'There's no help for it, mounseer,' the trainer answered. 'It's a hard thing to send such a man as you back to such a place, but business is business, and there's a twenty pound reward. They were here this morning, looking for you, and I expect they'll be round again.' His words turned my heart to lead. 'Surely, you would not betray me!' I cried. 'I will send you twice twenty pounds on the day that I set foot upon France. I swear it upon the honour of a French gentleman.' But I only got head-shakes for a reply. I pleaded, I argued, I spoke of the English hospitality and the fellowship of brave men, but I might as well have been addressing the two great wooden clubs which stood balanced upon the floor in front of me. There was no sign of sympathy upon their bull-faces. 'Business is business, mounseer,' the old trainer repeated. 'Besides, how am I to put the Bustler into the ring on Wednesday if he's jugged by the beak for aidin' and abettin' a prisoner of war? I've got to look after the Bustler, and I take no risks.' This, then, was the end of all my struggles and strivings. I was to be led back again like a poor silly sheep who has broken through the hurdles. They little knew me who could fancy that I should submit to such a fate. I had heard enough to tell me where the weak point of these two men was, and I showed, as I have often showed before, that Etienne Gerard is never so terrible as when all hope seems to have deserted him. With a single spring I seized one of the clubs and swung it over the head of the Bustler. 'Come what may,' I cried, '_you_ shall be spoiled for Wednesday.' The fellow growled out an oath, and would have sprung at me, but the other flung his arms round him and pinned him to the chair. 'Not if I know it, Bustler,' he screamed. 'None of your games while I am by. Get away out of this, Frenchy. We only want to see your back. Run away, run away, or he'll get loose!' It was good advice, I thought, and I ran to the door, but as I came out into the open air my head swam round and I had to lean against the porch to save myself from falling. Consider all that I had been through, the anxiety of my escape, the long, useless flight in the storm, the day spent amid wet ferns, with only bread for food, the second journey by night, and now the injuries which I had received in attempting to deprive the little man of his clothes. Was it wonderful that even I should reach the limits of my endurance? I stood there in my heavy coat and my poor battered shako, my chin upon my chest, and my eyelids over my eyes. I had done my best, and I could do no more. It was the sound of horses' hoofs which made me at last raise my head, and there was the grey-moustached Governor of Dartmoor Prison not ten paces in front of me, with six mounted warders behind him! 'So, Colonel,' said he, with a bitter smile, 'we have found you once more.' When a brave man has done his utmost, and has failed, he shows his breeding by the manner in which he accepts his defeat. For me, I took the letter which I had in my pocket, and stepping forward, I handed it with such grace of manner as I could summon to the Governor. 'It has been my misfortune, sir, to detain one of your letters,' said I. He looked at me in amazement, and beckoned to the warders to arrest me. Then he broke the seal of the letter. I saw a curious expression come over his face as he read it. 'This must be the letter which Sir Charles Meredith lost,' said he. 'It was in the pocket of his coat.' 'You have carried it for two days?' 'Since the night before last.' 'And never looked at the contents?' I showed him by my manner that he had committed an indiscretion in asking a question which one gentleman should not have put to another. To my surprise he burst out into a roar of laughter. 'Colonel,' said he, wiping the tears from his eyes, 'you have really given both yourself and us a great deal of unnecessary trouble. Allow me to read the letter which you carried with you in your flight.' And this was what I heard:-- 'On receipt of this you are directed to release Colonel Etienne Gerard, of the 3rd Hussars, who has been exchanged against Colonel Mason, of the Horse Artillery, now in Verdun.' And as he read it, he laughed again, and the warders laughed, and the two men from the cottage laughed, and then, as I heard this universal merriment, and thought of all my hopes and fears, and my struggles and dangers, what could a debonair soldier do but lean against the porch once more, and laugh as heartily as any of them? And of them all was it not I who had the best reason to laugh, since in front of me I could see my dear France, and my mother, and the Emperor, and my horsemen; while behind lay the gloomy prison, and the heavy hand of the English King? 5. HOW THE BRIGADIER TOOK THE FIELD AGAINST THE MARSHAL MILLEFLEURS Massena was a thin, sour little fellow, and after his hunting accident he had only one eye, but when it looked out from under his cocked hat there was not much upon a field of battle which escaped it. He could stand in front of a battalion, and with a single sweep tell you if a buckle or a gaiter button were out of place. Neither the officers nor the men were very fond of him, for he was, as you know, a miser, and soldiers love that their leaders should be free-handed. At the same time, when it came to work they had a very high respect for him, and they would rather fight under him than under anyone except the Emperor himself, and Lannes, when he was alive. After all, if he had a tight grasp upon his money-bags, there was a day also, you must remember, when that same grip was upon Zurich and Genoa. He clutched on to his positions as he did to his strong box, and it took a very clever man to loosen him from either. When I received his summons I went gladly to his headquarters, for I was always a great favourite of his, and there was no officer of whom he thought more highly. That was the best of serving with those good old generals, that they knew enough to be able to pick out a fine soldier when they saw one. He was seated alone in his tent, with his chin upon his hand, and his brow as wrinkled as if he had been asked for a subscription. He smiled, however, when he saw me before him. 'Good day, Colonel Gerard.' 'Good day, Marshal.' 'How is the Third of Hussars?' 'Seven hundred incomparable men upon seven hundred excellent horses.' 'And your wounds--are they healed?' 'My wounds never heal, Marshal,' I answered. 'And why?' 'Because I have always new ones.' 'General Rapp must look to his laurels,' said he, his face all breaking into wrinkles as he laughed. 'He has had twenty-one from the enemy's bullets, and as many from Larrey's knives and probes. Knowing that you were hurt, Colonel, I have spared you of late.' 'Which hurt me most of all.' 'Tut, tut! Since the English got behind these accursed lines of Torres Vedras, there has been little for us to do. You did not miss much during your imprisonment at Dartmoor. But now we are on the eve of action.' 'We advance?' 'No, retire.' My face must have shown my dismay. What, retire before this sacred dog of a Wellington--he who had listened unmoved to my words, and had sent me to his land of fogs? I could have sobbed as I thought of it. 'What would you have?' cried Massena impatiently. 'When one is in check, it is necessary to move the king.' 'Forwards,' I suggested. He shook his grizzled head. 'The lines are not to be forced,' said he. 'I have already lost General St. Croix and more men than I can replace. On the other hand, we have been here at Santarem for nearly six months. There is not a pound of flour nor a jug of wine on the countryside. We must retire.' 'There are flour and wine in Lisbon,' I persisted. 'Tut, you speak as if an army could charge in and charge out again like your regiment of hussars. If Soult were here with thirty thousand men--but he will not come. I sent for you, however, Colonel Gerard, to say that I have a very singular and important expedition which I intend to place under your direction.' I pricked up my ears, as you can imagine. The Marshal unrolled a great map of the country and spread it upon the table. He flattened it out with his little, hairy hands. 'This is Santarem,' he said pointing. I nodded. 'And here, twenty-five miles to the east, is Almeixal, celebrated for its vintages and for its enormous Abbey.' Again I nodded; I could not think what was coming. 'Have you heard of the Marshal Millefleurs?' asked Massena. 'I have served with all the Marshals,' said I, 'but there is none of that name.' 'It is but the nickname which the soldiers have given him,' said Massena. 'If you had not been away from us for some months, it would not be necessary for me to tell you about him. He is an Englishman, and a man of good breeding. It is on account of his manners that they have given him his title. I wish you to go to this polite Englishman at Almeixal.' 'Yes, Marshal.' 'And to hang him to the nearest tree.' 'Certainly, Marshal.' I turned briskly upon my heels, but Massena recalled me before I could reach the opening of his tent. 'One moment, Colonel,' said he; 'you had best learn how matters stand before you start. You must know, then, that this Marshal Millefleurs, whose real name is Alexis Morgan, is a man of very great ingenuity and bravery. He was an officer in the English Guards, but having been broken for cheating at cards, he left the army. In some manner he gathered a number of English deserters round him and took to the mountains. French stragglers and Portuguese brigands joined him, and he found himself at the head of five hundred men. With these he took possession of the Abbey of Almeixal, sent the monks about their business, fortified the place, and gathered in the plunder of all the country round.' 'For which it is high time he was hanged,' said I, making once more for the door. 'One instant!' cried the Marshal, smiling at my impatience. 'The worst remains behind. Only last week the Dowager Countess of La Ronda, the richest woman in Spain, was taken by these ruffians in the passes as she was journeying from King Joseph's Court to visit her grandson. She is now a prisoner in the Abbey, and is only protected by her----' 'Grandmotherhood,' I suggested. 'Her power of paying a ransom,' said Massena. 'You have three missions, then: To rescue this unfortunate lady; to punish this villain; and, if possible, to break up this nest of brigands. It will be a proof of the confidence which I have in you when I say that I can only spare you half a squadron with which to accomplish all this.' My word, I could hardly believe my ears! I thought that I should have had my regiment at the least. 'I would give you more,' said he, 'but I commence my retreat today, and Wellington is so strong in horse that every trooper becomes of importance. I cannot spare you another man. You will see what you can do, and you will report yourself to me at Abrantes not later than tomorrow night.' It was very complimentary that he should rate my powers so high, but it was also a little embarrassing. I was to rescue an old lady, to hang an Englishman, and to break up a band of five hundred assassins--all with fifty men. But after all, the fifty men were Hussars of Conflans, and they had an Etienne Gerard to lead them. As I came out into the warm Portuguese sunshine my confidence had returned to me, and I had already begun to wonder whether the medal which I had so often deserved might not be waiting for me at Almeixal. You may be sure that I did not take my fifty men at hap-hazard. They were all old soldiers of the German wars, some of them with three stripes, and most of them with two. Oudet and Papilette, two of the best sub-officers in the regiment, were at their head. When I had them formed up in fours, all in silver grey and upon chestnut horses, with their leopard skin shabracks and their little red panaches, my heart beat high at the sight. I could not look at their weather-stained faces, with the great moustaches which bristled over their chin-straps, without feeling a glow of confidence, and, between ourselves, I have no doubt that that was exactly how they felt when they saw their young Colonel on his great black war-horse riding at their head. Well, when we got free of the camp and over the Tagus, I threw out my advance and my flankers, keeping my own place at the head of the main body. Looking back from the hills above Santarem, we could see the dark lines of Massena's army, with the flash and twinkle of the sabres and bayonets as he moved his regiments into position for their retreat. To the south lay the scattered red patches of the English outposts, and behind the grey smoke-cloud which rose from Wellington's camp--thick, oily smoke, which seemed to our poor starving fellows to bear with it the rich smell of seething camp-kettles. Away to the west lay a curve of blue sea flecked with the white sails of the English ships. You will understand that as we were riding to the east, our road lay away from both armies. Our own marauders, however, and the scouting parties of the English, covered the country, and it was necessary with my small troop that I should take every precaution. During the whole day we rode over desolate hill-sides, the lower portions covered by the budding vines, but the upper turning from green to grey, and jagged along the skyline like the back of a starved horse. Mountain streams crossed our path, running west to the Tagus, and once we came to a deep, strong river, which might have checked us had I not found the ford by observing where houses had been built opposite each other upon either bank. Between them, as every scout should know, you will find your ford. There was none to give us information, for neither man nor beast, nor any living thing except great clouds of crows, was to be seen during our journey. The sun was beginning to sink when we came to a valley clear in the centre, but shrouded by huge oak trees upon either side. We could not be more than a few miles from Almeixal, so it seemed to me to be best to keep among the groves, for the spring had been an early one and the leaves were already thick enough to conceal us. We were riding then in open order among the great trunks, when one of my flankers came galloping up. 'There are English across the valley, Colonel,' he cried, as he saluted. 'Cavalry or infantry?' 'Dragoons, Colonel,' said he; 'I saw the gleam of their helmets, and heard the neigh of a horse.' Halting my men I hastened to the edge of the wood. There could be no doubt about it. A party of English cavalry was travelling in a line with us, and in the same direction. I caught a glimpse of their red coats and of their flashing arms glowing and twinkling among the tree-trunks. Once, as they passed through a small clearing, I could see their whole force, and I judged that they were of about the same strength as my own--a half squadron at the most. You who have heard some of my little adventures will give me credit for being quick in my decisions, and prompt in carrying them out. But here I must confess that I was in two minds. On the one hand there was the chance of a fine cavalry skirmish with the English. On the other hand, there was my mission at the Abbey of Almeixal, which seemed already to be so much above my power. If I were to lose any of my men, it was certain that I should be unable to carry out my orders. I was sitting my horse, with my chin in my gauntlet, looking across at the rippling gleams of light from the further wood, when suddenly one of these red-coated Englishmen rode out from the cover, pointing at me and breaking into a shrill whoop and halloa as if I had been a fox. Three others joined him, and one who was a bugler sounded a call, which brought the whole of them into the open. They were, as I had thought, a half squadron, and they formed a double line with a front of twenty-five, their officer--the one who had whooped at me--at their head. For my own part, I had instantly brought my own troopers into the same formation, so that there we were, hussars and dragoons, with only two hundred yards of grassy sward between us. They carried themselves well, those red-coated troopers, with their silver helmets, their high white plumes, and their long, gleaming swords; while, on the other hand, I am sure that they would acknowledge that they had never looked upon finer light horsemen than the fifty hussars of Conflans who were facing them. They were heavier, it is true, and they may have seemed the smarter, for Wellington used to make them burnish their metal work, which was not usual among us. On the other hand, it is well known that the English tunics were too tight for the sword-arm, which gave our men an advantage. As to bravery, foolish, inexperienced people of every nation always think that their own soldiers are braver than any others. There is no nation in the world which does not entertain this idea. But when one has seen as much as I have done, one understands that there is no very marked difference, and that although nations differ very much in discipline, they are all equally brave--except that the French have rather more courage than the rest. Well, the cork was drawn and the glasses ready, when suddenly the English officer raised his sword to me as if in a challenge, and cantered his horse across the grassland. My word, there is no finer sight upon earth than that of a gallant man upon a gallant steed! I could have halted there just to watch him as he came with such careless grace, his sabre down by his horse's shoulder, his head thrown back, his white plume tossing--youth and strength and courage, with the violet evening sky above and the oak trees behind. But it was not for me to stand and stare. Etienne Gerard may have his faults, but, my faith, he was never accused of being backward in taking his own part. The old horse, Rataplan, knew me so well that he had started off before ever I gave the first shake to the bridle. There are two things in this world that I am very slow to forget: the face of a pretty woman, and the legs of a fine horse. Well, as we drew together, I kept on saying, 'Where have I seen those great roan shoulders? Where have I seen that dainty fetlock?' Then suddenly I remembered, and as I looked up at the reckless eyes and the challenging smile, whom should I recognize but the man who had saved me from the brigands and played me for my freedom--he whose correct title was Milor the Hon. Sir Russell Bart! 'Bart!' I shouted. He had his arm raised for a cut, and three parts of his body open to my point, for he did not know very much about the use of the sword. As I brought my hilt to the salute he dropped his hand and stared at me. 'Halloa!' said he. 'It's Gerard!' You would have thought by his manner that I had met him by appointment. For my own part, I would have embraced him had he but come an inch of the way to meet me. 'I thought we were in for some sport,' said he. 'I never dreamed that it was you.' I found this tone of disappointment somewhat irritating. Instead of being glad at having met a friend, he was sorry at having missed an enemy. 'I should have been happy to join in your sport, my dear Bart,' said I. 'But I really cannot turn my sword upon a man who saved my life.' 'Tut, never mind about that.' 'No, it is impossible. I should never forgive myself.' 'You make too much of a trifle.' 'My mother's one desire is to embrace you. If ever you should be in Gascony----' 'Lord Wellington is coming there with 60,000 men.' 'Then one of them will have a chance of surviving,' said I, laughing. 'In the meantime, put your sword in your sheath!' Our horses were standing head to tail, and the Bart put out his hand and patted me on the thigh. 'You're a good chap, Gerard,' said he. 'I only wish you had been born on the right side of the Channel.' 'I was,' said I. 'Poor devil!' he cried, with such an earnestness of pity that he set me laughing again. 'But look here, Gerard,' he continued; 'this is all very well, but it is not business, you know. I don't know what Massena would say to it, but our Chief would jump out of his riding-boots if he saw us. We weren't sent out here for a picnic--either of us.' 'What would you have?' 'Well, we had a little argument about our hussars and dragoons, if you remember. I've got fifty of the Sixteenth all chewing their carbine bullets behind me. You've got as many fine-looking boys over yonder, who seem to be fidgeting in their saddles. If you and I took the right flanks we should not spoil each other's beauty--though a little blood-letting is a friendly thing in this climate.' There seemed to me to be a good deal of sense in what he said. For the moment Mr Alexis Morgan and the Countess of La Ronda and the Abbey of Almeixal went right out of my head, and I could only think of the fine level turf and of the beautiful skirmish which we might have. 'Very good, Bart,' said I. 'We have seen the front of your dragoons. We shall now have a look at their backs.' 'Any betting?' he asked. 'The stake,' said I, 'is nothing less than the honour of the Hussars of Conflans.' 'Well, come on!' he answered. 'If we break you, well and good--if you break us, it will be all the better for Marshal Millefleurs.' When he said that I could only stare at him in astonishment. 'Why for Marshal Millefleurs?' I asked. 'It is the name of a rascal who lives out this way. My dragoons have been sent by Lord Wellington to see him safely hanged.' 'Name of a name!' I cried. 'Why, my hussars have been sent by Massena for that very object.' We burst out laughing at that, and sheathed our swords. There was a whirr of steel from behind us as our troopers followed our example. 'We are allies!' he cried. 'For a day.' 'We must join forces.' 'There is no doubt of it.' And so, instead of fighting, we wheeled our half squadrons round and moved in two little columns down the valley, the shakos and the helmets turned inwards, and the men looking their neighbours up and down, like old fighting dogs with tattered ears who have learned to respect each other's teeth. The most were on the broad grin, but there were some on either side who looked black and challenging, especially the English sergeant and my own sub-officer Papilette. They were men of habit, you see, who could not change all their ways of thinking in a moment. Besides, Papilette had lost his only brother at Busaco. As for the Bart and me, we rode together at the head and chatted about all that had occurred to us since that famous game of écarté of which I have told you. For my own part, I spoke to him of my adventures in England. They are a very singular people, these English. Although he knew that I had been engaged in twelve campaigns, yet I am sure that the Bart thought more highly of me because I had had an affair with the Bristol Bustler. He told me, too, that the Colonel who presided over his court-martial for playing cards with a prisoner acquitted him of neglect of duty, but nearly broke him because he thought that he had not cleared his trumps before leading his suit. Yes, indeed, they are a singular people. At the end of the valley the road curved over some rising ground before winding down into another wider valley beyond. We called a halt when we came to the top; for there, right in front of us, at the distance of about three miles, was a scattered, grey town, with a single enormous building upon the flank of the mountain which overlooked it. We could not doubt that we were at last in sight of the Abbey that held the gang of rascals whom we had come to disperse. It was only now, I think, that we fully understood what a task lay in front of us, for the place was a veritable fortress, and it was evident that cavalry should never have been sent out upon such an errand. 'That's got nothing to do with us,' said the Bart; Wellington and Massena can settle that between them.' 'Courage!' I answered. 'Piré took Leipzig with fifty hussars.' 'Had they been dragoons,' said the Bart, laughing, 'he would have had Berlin. But you are senior officer; give us a lead, and we'll see who will be the first to flinch.' 'Well,' said I, 'whatever we do must be done at once, for my orders are to be on my way to Abrantes by tomorrow night. But we must have some information first, and here is someone who should be able to give it to us.' There was a square, whitewashed house standing by the roadside, which appeared, from the bush hanging over the door, to be one of those wayside tabernas which are provided for the muleteers. A lantern was hung in the porch, and by its light we saw two men, the one in the brown habit of a Capuchin monk, and the other girt with an apron, which showed him to be the landlord. They were conversing together so earnestly that we were upon them before they were aware of us. The innkeeper turned to fly, but one of the Englishmen seized him by the hair, and held him tight. 'For mercy's sake, spare me,' he yelled. 'My house has been gutted by the French and harried by the English, and my feet have been burned by the brigands. I swear by the Virgin that I have neither money nor food in my inn, and the good Father Abbot, who is starving upon my doorstep, will be witness to it.' 'Indeed, sir,' said the Capuchin, in excellent French, 'what this worthy man says is very true. He is one of the many victims to these cruel wars, although his loss is but a feather-weight compared to mine. Let him go,' he added, in English, to the trooper, 'he is too weak to fly, even if he desired to.' In the light of the lantern I saw that this monk was a magnificent man, dark and bearded, with the eyes of a hawk, and so tall that his cowl came up to Rataplan's ears. He wore the look of one who had been through much suffering, but he carried himself like a king, and we could form some opinion of his learning when we each heard him talk our own language as fluently as if he were born to it. 'You have nothing to fear,' said I, to the trembling innkeeper. 'As to you, father, you are, if I am not mistaken, the very man who can give us the information which we require.' 'All that I have is at your service, my son. But,' he added, with a wan smile, 'my Lenten fare is always somewhat meagre, and this year it has been such that I must ask you for a crust of bread if I am to have the strength to answer your questions.' We bore two days' rations in our haversacks, so that he soon had the little he asked for. It was dreadful to see the wolfish way in which he seized the piece of dried goat's flesh which I was able to offer him. 'Time presses, and we must come to the point,' said I. 'We want your advice as to the weak points of yonder Abbey, and concerning the habits of the rascals who infest it.' He cried out something which I took to be Latin, with his hands clasped and his eyes upturned. 'The prayer of the just availeth much,' said he, 'and yet I had not dared to hope that mine would have been so speedily answered. In me you see the unfortunate Abbot of Almeixal, who has been cast out by this rabble of three armies with their heretical leader. Oh! to think of what I have lost!' his voice broke, and the tears hung upon his lashes. 'Cheer up, sir,' said the Bart. 'I'll lay nine to four that we have you back again by tomorrow night.' It is not of my own welfare that I think,' said he, 'nor even of that of my poor, scattered flock. But it is of the holy relics which are left in the sacrilegious hands of these robbers.' 'It's even betting whether they would ever bother their heads about them,' said the Bart. 'But show us the way inside the gates, and we'll soon clear the place out for you.' In a few short words the good Abbot gave us the very points that we wished to know. But all that he said only made our task more formidable. The walls of the Abbey were forty feet high. The lower windows were barricaded, and the whole building loopholed for musketry fire. The gang preserved military discipline, and their sentries were too numerous for us to hope to take them by surprise. It was more than ever evident that a battalion of grenadiers and a couple of breaching pieces were what was needed. I raised my eyebrows, and the Bart began to whistle. 'We must have a shot at it, come what may,' said he. The men had already dismounted, and, having watered their horses, were eating their suppers. For my own part I went into the sitting-room of the inn with the Abbot and the Bart, that we might talk about our plans. I had a little cognac in my _sauve vie_, and I divided it among us--just enough to wet our moustaches. 'It is unlikely,' said I, 'that those rascals know anything about our coming. I have seen no signs of scouts along the road. My own plan is that we should conceal ourselves in some neighbouring wood, and then, when they open their gates, charge down upon them and take them by surprise.' The Bart was of opinion that this was the best that we could do, but, when we came to talk it over, the Abbot made us see that there were difficulties in the way. 'Save on the side of the town, there is no place within a mile of the Abbey where you could shelter man or horse,' said he. 'As to the townsfolk, they are not to be trusted. I fear, my son, that your excellent plan would have little chance of success in the face of the vigilant guard which these men keep.' 'I see no other way,' answered I. 'Hussars of Conflans are not so plentiful that I can afford to run half a squadron of them against a forty-foot wall with five hundred infantry behind it.' 'I am a man of peace,' said the Abbot, 'and yet I may, perhaps, give a word of counsel. I know these villains and their ways. Who should do so better, seeing that I have stayed for a month in this lonely spot, looking down in weariness of heart at the Abbey which was my own? I will tell you now what I should myself do if I were in your place.' 'Pray tell us, father,' we cried, both together. 'You must know that bodies of deserters, both French and English, are continually coming in to them, carrying their weapons with them. Now, what is there to prevent you and your men from pretending to be such a body, and so making your way into the Abbey?' I was amazed at the simplicity of the thing, and I embraced the good Abbot. The Bart, however, had some objections to offer. 'That is all very well,' said he, 'but if these fellows are as sharp as you say, it is not very likely that they are going to let a hundred armed strangers into their crib. From all I have heard of Mr Morgan, or Marshal Millefleurs, or whatever the rascal's name is, I give him credit for more sense than that.' 'Well, then,' I cried, 'let us send fifty in, and let them at daybreak throw open the gates to the other fifty, who will be waiting outside.' We discussed the question at great length and with much foresight and discretion. If it had been Massena and Wellington instead of two young officers of light cavalry, we could not have weighed it all with more judgment. At last we agreed, the Bart and I, that one of us should indeed go with fifty men, under pretence of being deserters, and that in the early morning he should gain command of the gate and admit the others. The Abbot, it is true, was still of opinion that it was dangerous to divide our force, but finding that we were both of the same mind, he shrugged his shoulders and gave in. 'There is only one thing that I would ask,' said he. 'If you lay hands upon this Marshal Millefleurs--this dog of a brigand--what will you do with him?' 'Hang him,' I answered. 'It is too easy a death,' cried the Capuchin, with a vindictive glow in his dark eyes. 'Had I my way with him--but, oh, what thoughts are these for a servant of God to harbour!' He clapped his hands to his forehead like one who is half demented by his troubles, and rushed out of the room. There was an important point which we had still to settle, and that was whether the French or the English party should have the honour of entering the Abbey first. My faith, it was asking a great deal of Etienne Gerard that he should give place to any man at such a time! But the poor Bart pleaded so hard, urging the few skirmishes which he had seen against my four-and-seventy engagements, that at last I consented that he should go. We had just clasped hands over the matter when there broke out such a shouting and cursing and yelling from the front of the inn, that out we rushed with our drawn sabres in our hands, convinced that the brigands were upon us. You may imagine our feelings when, by the light of the lantern which hung from the porch, we saw a score of our hussars and dragoons all mixed in one wild heap, red coats and blue, helmets and busbies, pommelling each other to their hearts' content. We flung ourselves upon them, imploring, threatening, tugging at a lace collar, or at a spurred heel, until, at last, we had dragged them all apart. There they stood, flushed and bleeding, glaring at each other, and all panting together like a line of troop horses after a ten-mile chase. It was only with our drawn swords that we could keep them from each other's throats. The poor Capuchin stood in the porch in his long brown habit, wringing his hands and calling upon all the saints for mercy. He was, indeed, as I found upon inquiry, the innocent cause of all the turmoil, for, not understanding how soldiers look upon such things, he had made some remark to the English sergeant that it was a pity that his squadron was not as good as the French. The words were not out of his mouth before a dragoon knocked down the nearest hussar, and then, in a moment, they all flew at each other like tigers. We would trust them no more after that, but the Bart moved his men to the front of the inn, and I mine to the back, the English all scowling and silent, and our fellows shaking their fists and chattering, each after the fashion of their own people. Well, as our plans were made, we thought it best to carry them out at once, lest some fresh cause of quarrel should break out between our followers. The Bart and his men rode off, therefore, he having first torn the lace from his sleeves, and the gorget and sash from his uniform, so that he might pass as a simple trooper. He explained to his men what it was that was expected of them, and though they did not raise a cry or wave their weapons as mine might have done, there was an expression upon their stolid and clean-shaven faces which filled me with confidence. Their tunics were left unbuttoned, their scabbards and helmets stained with dirt, and their harness badly fastened, so that they might look the part of deserters, without order or discipline. At six o'clock next morning they were to gain command of the main gate of the Abbey, while at that same hour my hussars were to gallop up to it from outside. The Bart and I pledged our words to it before he trotted off with his detachment. My sergeant, Papilette, with two troopers, followed the English at a distance, and returned in half an hour to say that, after some parley, and the flashing of lanterns upon them from the grille, they had been admitted into the Abbey. So far, then, all had gone well. It was a cloudy night with a sprinkling of rain, which was in our favour, as there was the less chance of our presence being discovered. My vedettes I placed two hundred yards in every direction, to guard against a surprise, and also to prevent any peasant who might stumble upon us from carrying the news to the Abbey. Oudin and Papilette were to take turns of duty, while the others with their horses had snug quarters in a great wooden granary. Having walked round and seen that all was as it should be, I flung myself upon the bed which the innkeeper had set apart for me, and fell into a dreamless sleep. No doubt you have heard my name mentioned as being the beau-ideal of a soldier, and that not only by friends and admirers like our fellow-townsfolk, but also by old officers of the great wars who have shared the fortunes of those famous campaigns with me. Truth and modesty compel me to say, however, that this is not so. There are some gifts which I lack--very few, no doubt--but, still, amid the vast armies of the Emperor there may have been some who were free from those blemishes which stood between me and perfection. Of bravery I say nothing. Those who have seen me in the field are best fitted to speak about that. I have often heard the soldiers discussing round the camp-fires as to who was the bravest man in the Grand Army. Some said Murat, and some said Lasalle, and some Ney; but for my own part, when they asked me, I merely shrugged my shoulders and smiled. It would have seemed mere conceit if I had answered that there was no man braver than Brigadier Gerard. At the same time, facts are facts, and a man knows best what his own feelings are. But there are other gifts besides bravery which are necessary for a soldier, and one of them is that he should be a light sleeper. Now, from my boyhood onwards, I have been hard to wake, and it was this which brought me to ruin upon that night. It may have been about two o'clock in the morning that I was suddenly conscious of a feeling of suffocation. I tried to call out, but there was something which prevented me from uttering a sound. I struggled to rise, but I could only flounder like a hamstrung horse. I was strapped at the ankles, strapped at the knees, and strapped again at the wrists. Only my eyes were free to move, and there at the foot of my couch, by the light of a Portuguese lamp, whom should I see but the Abbot and the innkeeper! The latter's heavy, white face had appeared to me when I looked upon it the evening before to express nothing but stupidity and terror. Now, on the contrary, every feature bespoke brutality and ferocity. Never have I seen a more dreadful-looking villain. In his hand he held a long, dull-coloured knife. The Abbot, on the other hand, was as polished and as dignified as ever. His Capuchin gown had been thrown open, however, and I saw beneath it a black, frogged coat, such as I have seen among the English officers. As our eyes met he leaned over the wooden end of the bed and laughed silently until it creaked again. 'You will, I am sure, excuse my mirth, my dear Colonel Gerard,' said he. 'The fact is, that the expression upon your face when you grasped the situation was just a little funny. I have no doubt that you are an excellent soldier, but I hardly think that you are fit to measure wits with the Marshal Millefleurs, as your fellows have been good enough to call me. You appear to have given me credit for singularly little intelligence, which argues, if I may be allowed to say so, a want of acuteness upon your own part. Indeed, with the single exception of my thick-headed compatriot, the British dragoon, I have never met anyone who was less competent to carry out such a mission.' You can imagine how I felt and how I looked, as I listened to this insolent harangue, which was all delivered in that flowery and condescending manner which had gained this rascal his nickname. I could say nothing, but they must have read my threat in my eyes, for the fellow who had played the part of the innkeeper whispered something to his companion. 'No, no, my dear Chenier, he will be infinitely more valuable alive,' said he. 'By the way, Colonel, it is just as well that you are a sound sleeper, for my friend here, who is a little rough in his ways, would certainly have cut your throat if you had raised any alarm. I should recommend you to keep in his good graces, for Sergeant Chenier, late of the 7th Imperial Light Infantry, is a much more dangerous person than Captain Alexis Morgan, of His Majesty's foot-guards.' Chenier grinned and shook his knife at me, while I tried to look the loathing which I felt at the thought that a soldier of the Emperor could fall so low. 'It may amuse you to know,' said the Marshal, in that soft, suave voice of his, 'that both your expeditions were watched from the time that you left your respective camps. I think that you will allow that Chenier and I played our parts with some subtlety. We had made every arrangement for your reception at the Abbey, though we had hoped to receive the whole squadron instead of half. When the gates are secured behind them, our visitors will find themselves in a very charming little mediaeval quadrangle, with no possible exit, commanded by musketry fire from a hundred windows. They may choose to be shot down; or they may choose to surrender. Between ourselves, I have not the slightest doubt that they have been wise enough to do the latter. But since you are naturally interested in the matter, we thought that you would care to come with us and to see for yourself. I think I can promise you that you will find your titled friend waiting for you at the Abbey with a face as long as your own.' The two villains began whispering together, debating, as far as I could hear, which was the best way of avoiding my vedettes. 'I will make sure that it is all clear upon the other side of the barn,' said the Marshal at last. 'You will stay here, my good Chenier, and if the prisoner gives any trouble you will know what to do.' So we were left together, this murderous renegade and I--he sitting at the end of the bed, sharpening his knife upon his boot in the light of the single smoky little oil-lamp. As to me, I only wonder now, as I look back upon it, that I did not go mad with vexation and self-reproach as I lay helplessly upon the couch, unable to utter a word or move a finger, with the knowledge that my fifty gallant lads were so close to me, and yet with no means of letting them know the straits to which I was reduced. It was no new thing for me to be a prisoner; but to be taken by these renegades, and to be led into their Abbey in the midst of their jeers, befooled and out-witted by their insolent leaders--that was indeed more than I could endure. The knife of the butcher beside me would cut less deeply than that. I twitched softly at my wrists, and then at my ankles, but whichever of the two had secured me was no bungler at his work. I could not move either of them an inch. Then I tried to work the handkerchief down over my mouth, but the ruffian beside me raised his knife with such a threatening snarl that I had to desist. I was lying still looking at his bull neck, and wondering whether it would ever be my good fortune to fit it for a cravat, when I heard returning steps coming down the inn passage and up the stair. What word would the villain bring back? If he found it impossible to kidnap me, he would probably murder me where I lay. For my own part, I was indifferent which it might be, and I looked at the doorway with the contempt and defiance which I longed to put into words. But you can imagine my feelings, my dear friends, when, instead of the tall figure and dark, sneering face of the Capuchin, my eyes fell upon the grey pelisse and huge moustaches of my good little sub-officer, Papilette! The French soldier of those days had seen too much to be ever taken by surprise. His eyes had hardly rested upon my bound figure and the sinister face beside me before he had seen how the matter lay. 'Sacred name of a dog!' he growled, and out flashed his great sabre. Chenier sprang forward at him with his knife, and then, thinking better of it, he darted back and stabbed frantically at my heart. For my own part, I had hurled myself off the bed on the side opposite to him, and the blade grazed my side before ripping its way through blanket and sheet. An instant later I heard the thud of a heavy fall, and then almost simultaneously a second object struck the floor--something lighter but harder, which rolled under the bed. I will not horrify you with details, my friends. Suffice it that Papilette was one of the strongest swordsmen in the regiment, and that his sabre was heavy and sharp. It left a red blotch upon my wrists and my ankles, as it cut the thongs which bound me. When I had thrown off my gag, the first use which I made of my lips was to kiss the sergeant's scarred cheeks. The next was to ask him if all was well with the command. Yes, they had had no alarms. Oudin had just relieved him, and he had come to report. Had he seen the Abbot? No, he had seen nothing of him. Then we must form a cordon and prevent his escape. I was hurrying out to give the orders, when I heard a slow and measured step enter the door below, and come creaking up the stairs. Papilette understood it all in an instant. 'You are not to kill him,' I whispered, and thrust him into the shadow on one side of the door; I crouched on the other. Up he came, up and up, and every footfall seemed to be upon my heart. The brown skirt of his gown was not over the threshold before we were both on him, like two wolves on a buck. Down we crashed, the three of us, he fighting like a tiger, and with such amazing strength that he might have broken away from the two of us. Thrice he got to his feet, and thrice we had him over again, until Papilette made him feel that there was a point to his sabre. He had sense enough then to know that the game was up, and to lie still while I lashed him with the very cords which had been round my own limbs. 'There has been a fresh deal, my fine fellow,' said I, 'and you will find that I have some of the trumps in _my_ hand this time.' 'Luck always comes to the aid of a fool,' he answered. 'Perhaps it is as well, otherwise the world would fall too completely into the power of the astute. So, you have killed Chenier, I see. He was an insubordinate dog, and always smelt abominably of garlic. Might I trouble you to lay me upon the bed? The floor of these Portuguese tabernas is hardly a fitting couch for anyone who has prejudices in favour of cleanliness.' I could not but admire the coolness of the man, and the way in which he preserved the same insolent air of condescension in spite of this sudden turning of the tables. I dispatched Papilette to summon a guard, whilst I stood over our prisoner with my drawn sword, never taking my eyes off him for an instant, for I must confess that I had conceived a great respect for his audacity and resource. 'I trust,' said he, 'that your men will treat me in a becoming manner.' 'You will get your deserts--you may depend upon that.' 'I ask nothing more. You may not be aware of my exalted birth, but I am so placed that I cannot name my father without treason, nor my mother without a scandal. I cannot _claim_ Royal honours, but these things are so much more graceful when they are conceded without a claim. The thongs are cutting my skin. Might I beg you to loosen them?' 'You do not give me credit for much intelligence,' I remarked, repeating his own words. '_Touché_,' he cried, like a pinked fencer. 'But here come your men, so it matters little whether you loosen them or not.' I ordered the gown to be stripped from him and placed him under a strong guard. Then, as morning was already breaking, I had to consider what my next step was to be. The poor Bart and his Englishmen had fallen victims to the deep scheme which might, had we adopted all the crafty suggestions of our adviser, have ended in the capture of the whole instead of the half of our force. I must extricate them if it were still possible. Then there was the old lady, the Countess of La Ronda, to be thought of. As to the Abbey, since its garrison was on the alert it was hopeless to think of capturing that. All turned now upon the value which they placed upon their leader. The game depended upon my playing that one card. I will tell you how boldly and how skilfully I played it. It was hardly light before my bugler blew the assembly, and out we trotted on to the plain. My prisoner was placed on horseback in the very centre of the troops. It chanced that there was a large tree just out of musket-shot from the main gate of the Abbey, and under this we halted. Had they opened the great doors in order to attack us, I should have charged home upon them; but, as I had expected, they stood upon the defensive, lining the long wall and pouring down a torrent of hootings and taunts and derisive laughter upon us. A few fired their muskets, but finding that we were out of reach they soon ceased to waste their powder. It was the strangest sight to see that mixture of uniforms, French, English, and Portuguese, cavalry, infantry, and artillery, all wagging their heads and shaking their fists at us. My word, their hubbub soon died away when we opened our ranks, and showed whom we had got in the midst of us! There was silence for a few seconds, and then such a howl of rage and grief! I could see some of them dancing like mad-men upon the wall. He must have been a singular person, this prisoner of ours, to have gained the affection of such a gang. I had brought a rope from the inn, and we slung it over the lower bough of the tree. 'You will permit me, monsieur, to undo your collar,' said Papilette, with mock politeness. 'If your hands are perfectly clean,' answered our prisoner, and set the whole half-squadron laughing. There was another yell from the wall, followed by a profound hush as the noose was tightened round Marshal Millefleurs' neck. Then came a shriek from a bugle, the Abbey gates flew open, and three men rushed out waving white cloths in their hands. Ah, how my heart bounded with joy at the sight of them. And yet I would not advance an inch to meet them, so that all the eagerness might seem to be upon their side. I allowed my trumpeter, however, to wave a handkerchief in reply, upon which the three envoys came running towards us. The Marshal, still pinioned, and with the rope round his neck, sat his horse with a half smile, as one who is slightly bored and yet strives out of courtesy not to show it. If I were in such a situation I could not wish to carry myself better, and surely I can say no more than that. They were a singular trio, these ambassadors. The one was a Portuguese caçadore in his dark uniform, the second a French chasseur in the lightest green, and the third a big English artilleryman in blue and gold. They saluted, all three, and the Frenchman did the talking. 'We have thirty-seven English dragoons in our hands,' said he. 'We give you our most solemn oath that they shall all hang from the Abbey wall within five minutes of the death of our Marshal.' 'Thirty-seven!' I cried. 'You have fifty-one.' 'Fourteen were cut down before they could be secured.' 'And the officer?' 'He would not surrender his sword save with his life. It was not our fault. We would have saved him if we could.' Alas for my poor Bart! I had met him but twice, and yet he was a man very much after my heart. I have always had a regard for the English for the sake of that one friend. A braver man and a worse swordsman I have never met. I did not, as you may think, take these rascals' word for anything. Papilette was dispatched with one of them, and returned to say that it was too true. I had now to think of the living. 'You will release the thirty-seven dragoons if I free your leader?' 'We will give you ten of them.' 'Up with him!' I cried. 'Twenty,' shouted the chasseur. 'No more words,' said I. 'Pull on the rope!' 'All of them,' cried the envoy, as the cord tightened round the Marshal's neck. 'With horses and arms?' They could see that I was not a man to jest with. 'All complete,' said the chasseur, sulkily. 'And the Countess of La Ronda as well?' said I. But here I met with firmer opposition. No threats of mine could induce them to give up the Countess. We tightened the cord. We moved the horse. We did all but leave the Marshal suspended. If once I broke his neck the dragoons were dead men. It was as precious to me as to them. 'Allow me to remark,' said the Marshal, blandly, 'that you are exposing me to a risk of a quinsy. Do you not think, since there is a difference of opinion upon this point, that it would be an excellent idea to consult the lady herself? We would neither of us, I am sure, wish to override her own inclinations.' Nothing could be more satisfactory. You can imagine how quickly I grasped at so simple a solution. In ten minutes she was before us, a most stately dame, with her grey curls peeping out from under her mantilla. Her face was as yellow as though it reflected the countless doubloons of her treasury. 'This gentleman,' said the Marshal, 'is exceedingly anxious to convey you to a place where you will never see us more. It is for you to decide whether you would wish to go with him, or whether you prefer to remain with me.' She was at his horse's side in an instant. 'My own Alexis,' she cried, 'nothing can ever part us.' He looked at me with a sneer upon his handsome face. 'By the way, you made a small slip of the tongue, my dear Colonel,' said he. 'Except by courtesy, no such person exists as the Dowager Countess of La Ronda. The lady whom I have the honour to present to you is my very dear wife, Mrs Alexis Morgan--or shall I say Madame la Marèchale Millefleurs?' It was at this moment that I came to the conclusion that I was dealing with the cleverest, and also the most unscrupulous, man whom I had ever met. As I looked upon this unfortunate old woman my soul was filled with wonder and disgust. As for her, her eyes were raised to his face with such a look as a young recruit might give to the Emperor. 'So be it,' said I at last; 'give me the dragoons and let me go.' They were brought out with their horses and weapons, and the rope was taken from the Marshal's neck. 'Good-bye, my dear Colonel,' said he. 'I am afraid that you will have rather a lame account to give of your mission, when you find your way back to Massena, though, from all I hear, he will probably be too busy to think of you. I am free to confess that you have extricated yourself from your difficulties with greater ability than I had given you credit for. I presume that there is nothing which I can do for you before you go?' 'There is one thing.' 'And that is?' 'To give fitting burial to this young officer and his men.' 'I pledge my word to it.' 'And there is one other.' 'Name it.' 'To give me five minutes in the open with a sword in your hand and a horse between your legs.' 'Tut, tut!' said he. 'I should either have to cut short your promising career, or else to bid adieu to my own bonny bride. It is unreasonable to ask such a request of a man in the first joys of matrimony.' I gathered my horsemen together and wheeled them into column. 'Au revoir,' I cried, shaking my sword at him. 'The next time you may not escape so easily.' 'Au revoir,' he answered. 'When you are weary of the Emperor, you will always find a commission waiting for you in the service of the Marshal Millefleurs.' 6. HOW THE BRIGADIER PLAYED FOR A KINGDOM It has sometimes struck me that some of you, when you have heard me tell these little adventures of mine, may have gone away with the impression that I was conceited. There could not be a greater mistake than this, for I have always observed that really fine soldiers are free from this failing. It is true that I have had to depict myself sometimes as brave, sometimes as full of resource, always as interesting; but, then, it really was so, and I had to take the facts as I found them. It would be an unworthy affectation if I were to pretend that my career has been anything but a fine one. The incident which I will tell you tonight, however, is one which you will understand that only a modest man would describe. After all, when one has attained such a position as mine, one can afford to speak of what an ordinary man might be tempted to conceal. You must know, then, that after the Russian campaign the remains of our poor army were quartered along the western bank of the Elbe, where they might thaw their frozen blood and try, with the help of the good German beer, to put a little between their skin and their bones. There were some things which we could not hope to regain, for I daresay that three large commissariat fourgons would not have sufficed to carry the fingers and the toes which the army had shed during that retreat. Still, lean and crippled as we were, we had much to be thankful for when we thought of our poor comrades whom we had left behind, and of the snowfields--the horrible, horrible snowfields. To this day, my friends, I do not care to see red and white together. Even my red cap thrown down upon my white counterpane has given me dreams in which I have seen those monstrous plains, the reeling, tortured army, and the crimson smears which glared upon the snow behind them. You will coax no story out of me about that business, for the thought of it is enough to turn my wine to vinegar and my tobacco to straw. Of the half-million who crossed the Elbe in the autumn of the year '12 about forty thousand infantry were left in the spring of '13. But they were terrible men, these forty thousand: men of iron, eaters of horses, and sleepers in the snow; filled, too, with rage and bitterness against the Russians. They would hold the Elbe until the great army of conscripts, which the Emperor was raising in France, should be ready to help them to cross it once more. But the cavalry was in a deplorable condition. My own hussars were at Borna, and when I paraded them first, I burst into tears at the sight of them. My fine men and my beautiful horses--it broke my heart to see the state to which they were reduced. 'But, courage,' I thought, 'they have lost much, but their Colonel is still left to them.' I set to work, therefore, to repair their disasters, and had already constructed two good squadrons, when an order came that all colonels of cavalry should repair instantly to the depôts of the regiments in France to organize the recruits and the remounts for the coming campaign. You will think, doubtless, that I was over-joyed at this chance of visiting home once more. I will not deny that it was a pleasure to me to know that I should see my mother again, and there were a few girls who would be very glad at the news; but there were others in the army who had a stronger claim. I would have given my place to any who had wives and children whom they might not see again. However, there is no arguing when the blue paper with the little red seal arrives, so within an hour I was off upon my great ride from the Elbe to the Vosges. At last I was to have a period of quiet. War lay behind my mare's tail and peace in front of her nostrils. So I thought, as the sound of the bugles died in the distance, and the long, white road curled away in front of me through plain and forest and mountain, with France somewhere beyond the blue haze which lay upon the horizon. It is interesting, but it is also fatiguing, to ride in the rear of an army. In the harvest time our soldiers could do without supplies, for they had been trained to pluck the grain in the fields as they passed, and to grind it for themselves in their bivouacs. It was at that time of year, therefore, that those swift marches were performed which were the wonder and the despair of Europe. But now the starving men had to be made robust once more, and I was forced to draw into the ditch continually as the Coburg sheep and the Bavarian bullocks came streaming past with waggon loads of Berlin beer and good French cognac. Sometimes, too, I would hear the dry rattle of the drums and the shrill whistle of the fifes, and long columns of our good little infantry men would swing past me with the white dust lying thick upon their blue tunics. These were old soldiers drawn from the garrisons of our German fortresses, for it was not until May that the new conscripts began to arrive from France. Well, I was rather tired of this eternal stopping and dodging, so that I was not sorry when I came to Altenburg to find that the road divided, and that I could take the southern and quieter branch. There were few wayfarers between there and Greiz, and the road wound through groves of oaks and beeches, which shot their branches across the path. You will think it strange that a Colonel of hussars should again and again pull up his horse in order to admire the beauty of the feathery branches and the little, green, new-budded leaves, but if you had spent six months among the fir trees of Russia you would be able to understand me. There was something, however, which pleased me very much less than the beauty of the forests, and that was the words and looks of the folk who lived in the woodland villages. We had always been excellent friends with the Germans, and during the last six years they had never seemed to bear us any malice for having made a little free with their country. We had shown kindnesses to the men and received them from the women, so that good, comfortable Germany was a second home to all of us. But now there was something which I could not understand in the behaviour of the people. The travellers made no answer to my salute; the foresters turned their heads away to avoid seeing me; and in the villages the folk would gather into knots in the roadway and would scowl at me as I passed. Even women would do this, and it was something new for me in those days to see anything but a smile in a woman's eyes when they were turned upon me. It was in the hamlet of Schmolin, just ten miles out of Altenburg, that the thing became most marked. I had stopped at the little inn there just to damp my moustache and to wash the dust out of poor Violette's throat. It was my way to give some little compliment, or possibly a kiss, to the maid who served me; but this one would have neither the one nor the other, but darted a glance at me like a bayonet-thrust. Then when I raised my glass to the folk who drank their beer by the door they turned their backs on me, save only one fellow, who cried, 'Here's a toast for you, boys! Here's to the letter T!' At that they all emptied their beer mugs and laughed; but it was not a laugh that had good-fellowship in it. I was turning this over in my head and wondering what their boorish conduct could mean, when I saw, as I rode from the village, a great T new carved upon a tree. I had already seen more than one in my morning's ride, but I had given no thought to them until the words of the beer-drinker gave them an importance. It chanced that a respectable-looking person was riding past me at the moment, so I turned to him for information. 'Can you tell me, sir,' said I, 'what this letter T is?' He looked at it and then at me in the most singular fashion. 'Young man,' said he, 'it is not the letter N.' Then before I could ask further he clapped his spurs into his horses ribs and rode, stomach to earth, upon his way. At first his words had no particular significance in my mind, but as I trotted onwards Violette chanced to half turn her dainty head, and my eyes were caught by the gleam of the brazen N's at the end of the bridle-chain. It was the Emperor's mark. And those T's meant something which was opposite to it. Things had been happening in Germany, then, during our absence, and the giant sleeper had begun to stir. I thought of the mutinous faces that I had seen, and I felt that if I could only have looked into the hearts of these people I might have had some strange news to bring into France with me. It made me the more eager to get my remounts, and to see ten strong squadrons behind my kettle-drums once more. While these thoughts were passing through my head I had been alternately walking and trotting, as a man should who has a long journey before, and a willing horse beneath, him. The woods were very open at this point, and beside the road there lay a great heap of fagots. As I passed there came a sharp sound from among them, and, glancing round, I saw a face looking out at me--a hot, red face, like that of a man who is beside himself with excitement and anxiety. A second glance told me that it was the very person with whom I had talked an hour before in the village. 'Come nearer!' he hissed. 'Nearer still! Now dismount and pretend to be mending the stirrup leather. Spies may be watching us, and it means death to me if I am seen helping you.' 'Death!' I whispered. 'From whom?' 'From the Tugendbund. From Lutzow's night-riders. You Frenchmen are living on a powder magazine, and the match has been struck that will fire it.' 'But this is all strange to me,' said I, still fumbling at the leathers of my horse. 'What is this Tugendbund?' 'It is the secret society which has planned the great rising which is to drive you out of Germany, just as you have been driven out of Russia.' 'And these T's stand for it?' 'They are the signal. I should have told you all this in the village, but I dared not be seen speaking with you. I galloped through the woods to cut you off, and concealed both my horse and myself.' 'I am very much indebted to you,' said I, 'and the more so as you are the only German that I have met today from whom I have had common civility.' 'All that I possess I have gained through contracting for the French armies,' said he. 'Your Emperor has been a good friend to me. But I beg that you will ride on now, for we have talked long enough. Beware only of Lutzow's night-riders!' 'Banditti?' I asked. 'All that is best in Germany,' said he. 'But for God's sake ride forwards, for I have risked my life and exposed my good name in order to carry you this warning.' Well, if I had been heavy with thought before, you can think how I felt after my strange talk with the man among the fagots. What came home to me even more than his words was his shivering, broken voice, his twitching face, and his eyes glancing swiftly to right and left, and opening in horror whenever a branch cracked upon a tree. It was clear that he was in the last extremity of terror, and it is possible that he had cause, for shortly after I had left him I heard a distant gunshot and a shouting from somewhere behind me. It may have been some sportsman halloaing to his dogs, but I never again heard of or saw the man who had given me my warning. I kept a good look-out after this, riding swiftly where the country was open, and slowly where there might be an ambuscade. It was serious for me, since 500 good miles of German soil lay in front of me; but somehow I did not take it very much to heart, for the Germans had always seemed to me to be a kindly, gentle people, whose hands closed more readily round a pipe-stem than a sword-hilt--not out of want of valour, you understand, but because they are genial, open souls, who would rather be on good terms with all men. I did not know then that beneath that homely surface there lurks a devilry as fierce as, and far more persistent than, that of the Castilian or the Italian. And it was not long before I had shown to me that there was something more serious abroad than rough words and hard looks. I had come to a spot where the road runs upwards through a wild tract of heath-land and vanishes into an oak wood. I may have been half-way up the hill when, looking forward, I saw something gleaming under the shadow of the tree-trunks, and a man came out with a coat which was so slashed and spangled with gold that he blazed like a fire in the sunlight. He appeared to be very drunk, for he reeled and staggered as he came towards me. One of his hands was held up to his ear and clutched a great red handkerchief, which was fixed to his neck. I had reined up the mare and was looking at him with some disgust, for it seemed strange to me that one who wore so gorgeous a uniform should show himself in such a state in broad daylight. For his part, he looked hard in my direction and came slowly onwards, stopping from time to time and swaying about as he gazed at me. Suddenly, as I again advanced, he screamed out his thanks to Christ, and, lurching forwards, he fell with a crash upon the dusty road. His hands flew forward with the fall, and I saw that what I had taken for a red cloth was a monstrous wound, which had left a great gap in his neck, from which a dark blood-clot hung, like an epaulette upon his shoulder. 'My God!' I cried, as I sprang to his aid. 'And I thought that you were drunk!' 'Not drunk, but dying,' said he. 'But thank Heaven that I have seen a French officer while I have still strength to speak.' I laid him among the heather and poured some brandy down his throat. All round us was the vast countryside, green and peaceful, with nothing living in sight save only the mutilated man beside me. 'Who has done this?' I asked, 'and what are you? You are French, and yet the uniform is strange to me.' 'It is that of the Emperor's new guard of honour. I am the Marquis of Château St Arnaud, and I am the ninth of my blood who has died in the service of France. I have been pursued and wounded by the night-riders of Lutzow, but I hid among the brushwood yonder, and waited in the hope that a Frenchman might pass. I could not be sure at first if you were friend or foe, but I felt that death was very near, and that I must take the chance.' 'Keep your heart up, comrade,' said I; 'I have seen a man with a worse wound who has lived to boast of it.' 'No, no,' he whispered; 'I am going fast.' He laid his hand upon mine as he spoke, and I saw that his finger-nails were already blue. 'But I have papers here in my tunic which you must carry at once to the Prince of Saxe-Felstein, at his Castle of Hof. He is still true to us, but the Princess is our deadly enemy. She is striving to make him declare against us. If he does so, it will determine all those who are wavering, for the King of Prussia is his uncle and the King of Bavaria his cousin. These papers will hold him to us if they can only reach him before he takes the last step. Place them in his hands tonight, and, perhaps, you will have saved all Germany for the Emperor. Had my horse not been shot, I might, wounded as I am----' He choked, and the cold hand tightened into a grip, which left mine as bloodless as itself. Then, with a groan, his head jerked back, and it was all over with him. Here was a fine start for my journey home. I was left with a commission of which I knew little, which would lead me to delay the pressing needs of my hussars, and which at the same time was of such importance that it was impossible for me to avoid it. I opened the Marquis's tunic, the brilliance of which had been devised by the Emperor in order to attract those young aristocrats from whom he hoped to raise these new regiments of his Guard. It was a small packet of papers which I drew out, tied up with silk, and addressed to the Prince of Saxe-Felstein. In the corner, in a sprawling, untidy hand, which I knew to be the Emperor's own, was written: 'Pressing and most important.' It was an order to me, those four words--an order as clear as if it had come straight from the firm lips with the cold grey eyes looking into mine. My troopers might wait for their horses, the dead Marquis might lie where I had laid him amongst the heather, but if the mare and her rider had a breath left in them the papers should reach the Prince that night. I should not have feared to ride by the road through the wood, for I have learned in Spain that the safest time to pass through a guerilla country is after an outrage, and that the moment of danger is when all is peaceful. When I came to look upon my map, however, I saw that Hof lay further to the south of me, and that I might reach it more directly by keeping to the moors. Off I set, therefore, and had not gone fifty yards before two carbine shots rang out of the brushwood and a bullet hummed past me like a bee. It was clear that the night-riders were bolder in their ways than the brigands of Spain, and that my mission would have ended where it had begun if I had kept to the road. It was a mad ride, that--a ride with a loose rein, girth-deep in heather and in gorse, plunging through bushes, flying down hill-sides, with my neck at the mercy of my dear little Violette. But she--she never slipped, she never faltered, as swift and as surefooted as if she knew that her rider carried the fate of all Germany beneath the buttons of his pelisse. And I--I had long borne the name of being the best horseman in the six brigades of light cavalry, but I never rode as I rode then. My friend the Bart had told me of how they hunt the fox in England, but the swiftest fox would have been captured by me that day. The wild pigeons which flew overhead did not take a straighter course than Violette and I below. As an officer, I have always been ready to sacrifice myself for my men, though the Emperor would not have thanked me for it, for he had many men, but only one--well, cavalry leaders of the first class are rare. But here I had an object which was indeed worth a sacrifice, and I thought no more of my life than of the clods of earth that flew from my darling's heels. We struck the road once more as the light was failing, and galloped into the little village of Lobenstein. But we had hardly got upon the cobblestones when off came one of the mare's shoes, and I had to lead her to the village smithy. His fire was low, and his day's work done, so that it would be an hour at the least before I could hope to push on to Hof. Cursing at the delay, I strode into the village inn and ordered a cold chicken and some wine to be served for my dinner. It was but a few miles to Hof, and I had every hope that I might deliver my papers to the Prince on that very night, and be on my way for France next morning with despatches for the Emperor in my bosom. I will tell you now what befell me in the inn of Lobenstein. The chicken had been served and the wine drawn, and I had turned upon both as a man may who has ridden such a ride, when I was aware of a murmur and a scuffling in the hall outside my door. At first I thought that it was some brawl between peasants in their cups, and I left them to settle their own affairs. But of a sudden there broke from among the low, sullen growl of the voices such a sound as would send Etienne Gerard leaping from his death-bed. It was the whimpering cry of a woman in pain. Down clattered my knife and my fork, and in an instant I was in the thick of the crowd which had gathered outside my door. The heavy-cheeked landlord was there and his flaxen-haired wife, the two men from the stables, a chambermaid, and two or three villagers. All of them, women and men, were flushed and angry, while there in the centre of them, with pale cheeks and terror in her eyes, stood the loveliest woman that ever a soldier would wish to look upon. With her queenly head thrown back, and a touch of defiance mingled with her fear, she looked as she gazed round her like a creature of a different race from the vile, coarse-featured crew who surrounded her. I had not taken two steps from my door before she sprang to meet me, her hand resting upon my arm and her blue eyes sparkling with joy and triumph. 'A French soldier and gentleman!' she cried. 'Now at last I am safe.' 'Yes, madam, you are safe,' said I, and I could not resist taking her hand in mine in order that I might reassure her. 'You have only to command me,' I added, kissing the hand as a sign that I meant what I was saying. 'I am Polish,' she cried; 'the Countess Palotta is my name. They abuse me because I love the French. I do not know what they might have done to me had Heaven not sent you to my help.' I kissed her hand again lest she should doubt my intentions. Then I turned upon the crew with such an expression as I know how to assume. In an instant the hall was empty. 'Countess,' said I, 'you are now under my protection. You are faint, and a glass of wine is necessary to restore you.' I offered her my arm and escorted her into my room, where she sat by my side at the table and took the refreshment which I offered her. How she blossomed out in my presence, this woman, like a flower before the sun! She lit up the room with her beauty. She must have read my admiration in my eyes, and it seemed to me that I also could see something of the sort in her own. Ah! my friends, I was no ordinary-looking man when I was in my thirtieth year. In the whole light cavalry it would have been hard to find a finer pair of whiskers. Murat's may have been a shade longer, but the best judges are agreed that Murat's were a shade too long. And then I had a manner. Some women are to be approached in one way and some in another, just as a siege is an affair of fascines and gabions in hard weather and of trenches in soft. But the man who can mix daring with timidity, who can be outrageous with an air of humility, and presumptuous with a tone of deference, that is the man whom mothers have to fear. For myself, I felt that I was the guardian of this lonely lady, and knowing what a dangerous man I had to deal with, I kept strict watch upon myself. Still, even a guardian has his privileges, and I did not neglect them. But her talk was as charming as her face. In a few words she explained that she was travelling to Poland, and that her brother who had been her escort had fallen ill upon the way. She had more than once met with ill-treatment from the country folk because she could not conceal her good-will towards the French. Then turning from her own affairs she questioned me about the army, and so came round to myself and my own exploits. They were familiar to her, she said, for she knew several of Poniatowski's officers, and they had spoken of my doings. Yet she would be glad to hear them from my own lips. Never have I had so delightful a conversation. Most women make the mistake of talking rather too much about their own affairs, but this one listened to my tales just as you are listening now, ever asking for more and more and more. The hours slipped rapidly by, and it was with horror that I heard the village clock strike eleven, and so learned that for four hours I had forgotten the Emperor's business. 'Pardon me, my dear lady,' I cried, springing to my feet, 'but I must go on instantly to Hof.' She rose also, and looked at me with a pale, reproachful face. 'And me?' she said. 'What is to become of me?' 'It is the Emperor's affair. I have already stayed far too long. My duty calls me, and I must go.' 'You must go? And I must be abandoned alone to these savages? Oh, why did I ever meet you? Why did you ever teach me to rely upon your strength?' Her eyes glazed over, and in an instant she was sobbing upon my bosom. Here was a trying moment for a guardian! Here was a time when he had to keep a watch upon a forward young officer. But I was equal to it. I smoothed her rich brown hair and whispered such consolations as I could think of in her ear, with one arm round her, it is true, but that was to hold her lest she should faint. She turned her tear-stained face to mine. 'Water,' she whispered. 'For God's sake, water!' I saw that in another moment she would be senseless. I laid the drooping head upon the sofa, and then rushed furiously from the room, hunting from chamber to chamber for a carafe. It was some minutes before I could get one and hurry back with it. You can imagine my feelings to find the room empty and the lady gone. Not only was she gone, but her cap and silver-mounted riding switch which had lain upon the table were gone also. I rushed out and roared for the landlord. He knew nothing of the matter, had never seen the woman before, and did not care if he never saw her again. Had the peasants at the door seen anyone ride away? No, they had seen nobody. I searched here and searched there, until at last I chanced to find myself in front of a mirror, where I stood with my eyes staring and my jaw as far dropped as the chin-strap of my shako would allow. Four buttons of my pelisse were open, and it did not need me to put my hand up to know that my precious papers were gone. Oh! the depth of cunning that lurks in a woman's heart. She had robbed me, this creature, robbed me as she clung to my breast. Even while I smoothed her hair, and whispered kind words into her ear, her hands had been at work beneath my dolman. And here I was, at the very last step of my journey, without the power of carrying out this mission which had already deprived one good man of his life, and was likely to rob another one of his credit. What would the Emperor say when he heard that I had lost his despatches? Would the army believe it of Etienne Gerard? And when they heard that a woman's hand had coaxed them from me, what laughter there would be at mess-table and at camp-fire! I could have rolled upon the ground in my despair. But one thing was certain--all this affair of the fracas in the hall and the persecution of the so-called Countess was a piece of acting from the beginning. This villainous innkeeper must be in the plot. From him I might learn who she was and where my papers had gone. I snatched my sabre from the table and rushed out in search of him. But the scoundrel had guessed what I would do, and had made his preparations for me. It was in the corner of the yard that I found him, a blunderbuss in his hands and a mastiff held upon a leash by his son. The two stable-hands, with pitchforks, stood upon either side, and the wife held a great lantern behind him, so as to guide his aim. 'Ride away, sir, ride away!' he cried, with a crackling voice. 'Your horse is at the door, and no one will meddle with you if you go your way; but if you come against us, you are alone against three brave men.' I had only the dog to fear, for the two forks and the blunderbuss were shaking about like branches in a wind. Still, I considered that, though I might force an answer with my sword-point at the throat of this fat rascal, still I should have no means of knowing whether that answer was the truth. It would be a struggle, then, with much to lose and nothing certain to gain. I looked them up and down, therefore, in a way that set their foolish weapons shaking worse than ever, and then, throwing myself upon my mare, I galloped away with the shrill laughter of the landlady jarring upon my ears. I had already formed my resolution. Although I had lost my papers, I could make a very good guess as to what their contents would be, and this I would say from my own lips to the Prince of Saxe-Felstein, as though the Emperor had commissioned me to convey it in that way. It was a bold stroke and a dangerous one, but if I went too far I could afterwards be disavowed. It was that or nothing, and when all Germany hung on the balance the game should not be lost if the nerve of one man could save it. It was midnight when I rode into Hof, but every window was blazing, which was enough it itself, in that sleepy country, to tell the ferment of excitement in which the people were. There was hooting and jeering as I rode through the crowded streets, and once a stone sang past my head, but I kept upon my way, neither slowing nor quickening my pace, until I came to the palace. It was lit from base to battlement, and the dark shadows, coming and going against the yellow glare, spoke of the turmoil within. For my part, I handed my mare to a groom at the gate, and striding in I demanded, in such a voice as an ambassador should have, to see the Prince instantly, upon business which would brook no delay. The hall was dark, but I was conscious as I entered of a buzz of innumerable voices, which hushed into silence as I loudly proclaimed my mission. Some great meeting was being held then--a meeting which, as my instincts told me, was to decide this very question of war and peace. It was possible that I might still be in time to turn the scale for the Emperor and for France. As to the major-domo, he looked blackly at me, and showing me into a small ante-chamber he left me. A minute later he returned to say that the Prince could not be disturbed at present, but that the Princess would take my message. The Princess! What use was there in giving it to her? Had I not been warned that she was German in heart and soul, and that it was she who was turning her husband and her State against us? 'It is the Prince that I must see,' said I. 'Nay, it is the Princess,' said a voice at the door, and a woman swept into the chamber. 'Von Rosen, you had best stay with us. Now, sir, what is it that you have to say to either Prince or Princess of Saxe-Felstein?' At the first sound of the voice I had sprung to my feet. At the first glance I had thrilled with anger. Not twice in a lifetime does one meet that noble figure, that queenly head, and those eyes as blue as the Garonne, and as chilling as her winter waters. 'Time presses, sir!' she cried, with an impatient tap of her foot. 'What have you to say to me?' 'What have I to say to you?' I cried. 'What can I say, save that you have taught me never to trust a woman more? You have ruined and dishonoured me for ever.' She looked with arched brows at her attendant. 'Is this the raving of fever, or does it come from some less innocent cause?' said she. 'Perhaps a little blood-letting--' 'Ah, you can act!' I cried. 'You have shown me that already.' 'Do you mean that we have met before?' 'I mean that you have robbed me within the last two hours.' 'This is past all bearing,' she cried, with an admirable affectation of anger. 'You claim, as I understand, to be an ambassador, but there are limits to the privileges which such an office brings with it.' 'You brazen it admirably,' said I. 'Your Highness will not make a fool of me twice in one night.' I sprang forward and, stooping down, caught up the hem of her dress. 'You would have done well to change it after you had ridden so far and so fast,' said I. It was like the dawn upon a snow-peak to see her ivory cheeks flush suddenly to crimson. 'Insolent!' she cried. 'Call the foresters and have him thrust from the palace' 'I will see the Prince first.' 'You will never see the Prince. Ah! Hold him, Von Rosen, hold him.' She had forgotten the man with whom she had to deal--was it likely that I would wait until they could bring their rascals? She had shown me her cards too soon. Her game was to stand between me and her husband. Mine was to speak face to face with him at any cost. One spring took me out of the chamber. In another I had crossed the hall. An instant later I had burst into the great room from which the murmur of the meeting had come. At the far end I saw a figure upon a high chair under a daïs. Beneath him was a line of high dignitaries, and then on every side I saw vaguely the heads of a vast assembly. Into the centre of the room I strode, my sabre clanking, my shako under my arm. 'I am the messenger of the Emperor,' I shouted. 'I bear his message to His Highness the Prince of Saxe-Felstein.' The man beneath the daïs raised his head, and I saw that his face was thin and wan, and that his back was bowed as though some huge burden was balanced between his shoulders. 'Your name, sir?' he asked. 'Colonel Etienne Gerard, of the Third Hussars.' Every face in the gathering was turned upon me, and I heard the rustle of the innumerable necks and saw countless eyes without meeting one friendly one amongst them. The woman had swept past me, and was whispering, with many shakes of her head and dartings of her hands, into the Prince's ear. For my own part I threw out my chest and curled my moustache, glancing round in my own debonair fashion at the assembly. They were men, all of them, professors from the college, a sprinkling of their students, soldiers, gentlemen, artisans, all very silent and serious. In one corner there sat a group of men in black, with riding-coats drawn over their shoulders. They leaned their heads to each other, whispering under their breath, and with every movement I caught the clank of their sabres or the clink of their spurs. 'The Emperor's private letter to me informs me that it is the Marquis Château St Arnaud who is bearing his despatches,' said the Prince. 'The Marquis has been foully murdered,' I answered, and a buzz rose up from the people as I spoke. Many heads were turned, I noticed, towards the dark men in the cloaks. 'Where are your papers?' asked the Prince. 'I have none.' A fierce clamour rose instantly around me. 'He is a spy! He plays a part!' they cried. 'Hang him!' roared a deep voice from the corner, and a dozen others took up the shout. For my part, I drew out my handkerchief and nicked the dust from the fur of my pelisse. The Prince held out his thin hands, and the tumult died away. 'Where, then, are your credentials, and what is your message?' 'My uniform is my credential, and my message is for your private ear.' He passed his hand over his forehead with the gesture of a weak man who is at his wits' end what to do. The Princess stood beside him with her hand upon his throne, and again whispered in his ear. 'We are here in council together, some of my trusty subjects and myself,' said he. 'I have no secrets from them, and whatever message the Emperor may send to me at such a time concerns their interests no less than mine.' There was a hum of applause at this, and every eye was turned once more upon me. My faith, it was an awkward position in which I found myself, for it is one thing to address eight hundred hussars, and another to speak to such an audience on such a subject. But I fixed my eyes upon the Prince, and tried to say just what I should have said if we had been alone, shouting it out, too, as though I had my regiment on parade. 'You have often expressed friendship for the Emperor,' I cried. 'It is now at last that this friendship is about to be tried. If you will stand firm, he will reward you as only he can reward. It is an easy thing for him to turn a Prince into a King and a province into a power. His eyes are fixed upon you, and though you can do little to harm him, you can ruin yourself. At this moment he is crossing the Rhine with two hundred thousand men. Every fortress in the country is in his hands. He will be upon you in a week, and if you have played him false, God help both you and your people. You think that he is weakened because a few of us got the chilblains last winter. Look there!' I cried, pointing to a great star which blazed through the window above the Prince's head. 'That is the Emperor's star. When it wanes, he will wane--but not before.' You would have been proud of me, my friends, if you could have seen and heard me, for I clashed my sabre as I spoke, and swung my dolman as though my regiment was picketed outside in the courtyard. They listened to me in silence, but the back of the Prince bowed more and more as though the burden which weighed upon it was greater than his strength. He looked round with haggard eyes. 'We have heard a Frenchman speak for France,' said he. 'Let us have a German speak for Germany.' The folk glanced at each other, and whispered to their neighbours. My speech, as I think, had its effect, and no man wished to be the first to commit himself in the eyes of the Emperor. The Princess looked round her with blazing eyes, and her clear voice broke the silence. 'Is a woman to give this Frenchman his answer?' she cried. 'Is it possible, then, that among the night-riders of Lutzow there is none who can use his tongue as well as his sabre?' Over went a table with a crash, and a young man had bounded upon one of the chairs. He had the face of one inspired--pale, eager, with wild hawk eyes, and tangled hair. His sword hung straight from his side, and his riding-boots were brown with mire. 'It is Korner!' the people cried. 'It is young Korner, the poet! Ah, he will sing, he will sing.' And he sang! It was soft, at first, and dreamy, telling of old Germany, the mother of nations, of the rich, warm plains, and the grey cities, and the fame of dead heroes. But then verse after verse rang like a trumpet-call. It was of the Germany of now, the Germany which had been taken unawares and overthrown, but which was up again, and snapping the bonds upon her giant limbs. What was life that one should covet it? What was glorious death that one should shun it? The mother, the great mother, was calling. Her sigh was in the night wind. She was crying to her own children for help. Would they come? Would they come? Would they come? Ah, that terrible song, the spirit face and the ringing voice! Where were I, and France, and the Emperor? They did not shout, these people--they howled. They were up on the chairs and the tables. They were raving, sobbing, the tears running down their faces. Korner had sprung from the chair, and his comrades were round him with their sabres in the air. A flush had come into the pale face of the Prince, and he rose from his throne. 'Colonel Gerard,' said he, 'you have heard the answer which you are to carry to your Emperor. The die is cast, my children. Your Prince and you must stand or fall together.' He bowed to show that all was over, and the people with a shout made for the door to carry the tidings into the town. For my own part, I had done all that a brave man might, and so I was not sorry to be carried out amid the stream. Why should I linger in the palace? I had had my answer and must carry it, such as it was. I wished neither to see Hof nor its people again until I entered it at the head of a vanguard. I turned from the throng, then, and walked silently and sadly in the direction in which they had led the mare. It was dark down there by the stables, and I was peering round for the hostler, when suddenly my two arms were seized from behind. There were hands at my wrists and at my throat, and I felt the cold muzzle of a pistol under my ear. 'Keep your lips closed, you French dog,' whispered a fierce voice. 'We have him, captain.' 'Have you the bridle?' 'Here it is.' 'Sling it over his head.' I felt the cold coil of leather tighten round my neck. An hostler with a stable lantern had come out and was gazing upon the scene. In its dim light I saw stern faces breaking everywhere through the gloom, with the black caps and dark cloaks of the night-riders. 'What would you do with him, captain?' cried a voice. 'Hang him at the palace gate.' 'An ambassador?' 'An ambassador without papers.' 'But the Prince?' 'Tut, man, do you not see that the Prince will then be committed to our side? He will be beyond all hope of forgiveness. At present he may swing round tomorrow as he has done before. He may eat his words, but a dead hussar is more than he can explain.' 'No, no, Von Strelitz, we cannot do it,' said another voice. 'Can we not? I shall show you that!' and there came a jerk on the bridle which nearly pulled me to the ground. At the same instant a sword flashed and the leather was cut through within two inches of my neck. 'By Heaven, Korner, this is rank mutiny,' cried the captain. 'You may hang yourself before you are through with it.' 'I have drawn my sword as a soldier and not as a brigand,' said the young poet. 'Blood may dim its blade, but never dishonour. Comrades, will you stand by and see this gentleman mishandled?' A dozen sabres flew from their sheaths, and it was evident that my friends and my foes were about equally balanced. But the angry voices and the gleam of steel had brought the folk running from all parts. 'The Princess!' they cried. 'The Princess is coming!' And even as they spoke I saw her in front of us, her sweet face framed in the darkness. I had cause to hate her, for she had cheated and befooled me, and yet it thrilled me then and thrills me now to think that my arms have embraced her, and that I have felt the scent of her hair in my nostrils. I know not whether she lies under her German earth, or whether she still lingers, a grey-haired woman in her Castle of Hof, but she lives ever, young and lovely, in the heart and memory of Etienne Gerard. 'For shame!' she cried, sweeping up to me, and tearing with her own hands the noose from my neck. 'You are fighting in God's own quarrel, and yet you would begin with such a devil's deed as this. This man is mine, and he who touches a hair of his head will answer for it to me.' They were glad enough to slink off into the darkness before those scornful eyes. Then she turned once more to me. 'You can follow me, Colonel Gerard,' she said. 'I have a word that I would speak to you.' I walked behind her to the chamber into which I had originally been shown. She closed the door, and then looked at me with the archest twinkle in her eyes. 'Is it not confiding of me to trust myself with you?' said she. 'You will remember that it is the Princess of Saxe-Felstein and not the poor Countess Palotta of Poland.' 'Be the name what it might,' I answered, 'I helped a lady whom I believed to be in distress, and I have been robbed of my papers and almost of my honour as a reward.' 'Colonel Gerard,' said she, 'we have been playing a game, you and I, and the stake was a heavy one. You have shown by delivering a message which was never given to you that you would stand at nothing in the cause of your country. My heart is German and yours is French, and I also would go all lengths, even to deceit and to theft, if at this crisis I could help my suffering fatherland. You see how frank I am.' 'You tell me nothing that I have not seen.' 'But now that the game is played and won, why should we bear malice? I will say this, that if ever I were in such a plight as that which I pretended in the inn of Lobenstein, I should never wish to meet a more gallant protector or a truer-hearted gentleman than Colonel Etienne Gerard. I had never thought that I could feel for a Frenchman as I felt for you when I slipped the papers from your breast.' 'But you took them, none the less.' 'They were necessary to me and to Germany. I knew the arguments which they contained and the effect which they would have upon the Prince. If they had reached him all would have been lost.' 'Why should your Highness descend to such expedients when a score of these brigands, who wished to hang me at your castle gate, would have done the work as well?' 'They are not brigands, but the best blood of Germany,' she cried, hotly. 'If you have been roughly used, you will remember the indignities to which every German has been subjected, from the Queen of Prussia downwards. As to why I did not have you waylaid upon the road, I may say that I had parties out on all sides, and that I was waiting at Lobenstein to hear of their success. When instead of their news you yourself arrived I was in despair, for there was only the one weak woman betwixt you and my husband. You see the straits to which I was driven before I used the weapon of my sex.' 'I confess that you have conquered me, your Highness, and it only remains for me to leave you in possession of the field.' 'But you will take your papers with you.' She held them out to me as she spoke. 'The Prince has crossed the Rubicon now, and nothing can bring him back. You can return these to the Emperor, and tell him that we refused to receive them. No one can accuse you then of having lost your despatches. Good-bye, Colonel Gerard, and the best I can wish you is that when you reach France you may remain there. In a year's time there will be no place for a Frenchman upon this side of the Rhine.' And thus it was that I played the Princess of Saxe-Felstein with all Germany for a stake, and lost my game to her. I had much to think of as I walked my poor, tired Violette along the highway which leads westward from Hof. But amid all the thoughts there came back to me always the proud, beautiful face of the German woman, and the voice of the soldier-poet as he sang from the chair. And I understood then that there was something terrible in this strong, patient Germany--this mother root of nations--and I saw that such a land, so old and so beloved, never could be conquered. And as I rode I saw that the dawn was breaking, and that the great star at which I had pointed through the palace window was dim and pale in the western sky. 7. HOW THE BRIGADIER WON HIS MEDAL The Duke of Tarentum, or Macdonald, as his old comrades prefer to call him, was, as I could perceive, in the vilest of tempers. His grim, Scotch face was like one of those grotesque door-knockers which one sees in the Faubourg St Germain. We heard afterwards that the Emperor had said in jest that he would have sent him against Wellington in the South, but that he was afraid to trust him within the sound of the pipes. Major Charpentier and I could plainly see that he was smouldering with anger. 'Brigadier Gerard of the Hussars,' said he, with the air of the corporal with the recruit. I saluted. 'Major Charpentier of the Horse Grenadiers.' My companion answered to his name. 'The Emperor has a mission for you.' Without more ado he flung open the door and announced us. I have seen Napoleon ten times on horseback to once on foot, and I think that he does wisely to show himself to the troops in this fashion, for he cuts a very good figure in the saddle. As we saw him now he was the shortest man out of six by a good hand's breadth, and yet I am no very big man myself, though I ride quite heavy enough for a hussar. It is evident, too, that his body is too long for his legs. With his big, round head, his curved shoulders, and his clean-shaven face, he is more like a Professor at the Sorbonne than the first soldier in France. Every man to his taste, but it seems to me that, if I could clap a pair of fine light cavalry whiskers, like my own, on to him, it would do him no harm. He has a firm mouth, however, and his eyes are remarkable. I have seen them once turned on me in anger, and I had rather ride at a square on a spent horse than face them again. I am not a man who is easily daunted, either. He was standing at the side of the room, away from the window, looking up at a great map of the country which was hung upon the wall. Berthier stood beside him, trying to look wise, and just as we entered, Napoleon snatched his sword impatiently from him and pointed with it on the map. He was talking fast and low, but I heard him say, 'The valley of the Meuse,' and twice he repeated 'Berlin.' As we entered, his aide-de-camp advanced to us, but the Emperor stopped him and beckoned us to his side. 'You have not yet received the cross of honour, Brigadier Gerard?' he asked. I replied that I had not, and was about to add that it was not for want of having deserved it, when he cut me short in his decided fashion. 'And you, Major?' he asked. 'No, sire.' 'Then you shall both have your opportunity now.' He led us to the great map upon the wall and placed the tip of Berthier's sword on Rheims. 'I will be frank with you, gentlemen, as with two comrades. You have both been with me since Marengo, I believe?' He had a strangely pleasant smile, which used to light up his pale face with a kind of cold sunshine. 'Here at Rheims are our present headquarters on this the 14th of March. Very good. Here is Paris, distant by road a good twenty-five leagues. Blucher lies to the north, Schwarzenberg to the south.' He prodded at the map with the sword as he spoke. 'Now,' said he, 'the further into the country these people march, the more completely I shall crush them. They are about to advance upon Paris. Very good. Let them do so. My brother, the King of Spain, will be there with a hundred thousand men. It is to him that I send you. You will hand him this letter, a copy of which I confide to each of you. It is to tell him that I am coming at once, in two days' time, with every man and horse and gun to his relief. I must give them forty-eight hours to recover. Then straight to Paris! You understand me, gentlemen?' Ah, if I could tell you the glow of pride which it gave me to be taken into the great man's confidence in this way. As he handed our letters to us I clicked my spurs and threw out my chest, smiling and nodding to let him know that I saw what he would be after. He smiled also, and rested his hand for a moment upon the cape of my dolman. I would have given half my arrears of pay if my mother could have seen me at that instant. 'I will show you your route,' said he, turning back to the map. 'Your orders are to ride together as far as Bazoches. You will then separate, the one making for Paris by Oulchy and Neuilly, and the other to the north by Braine, Soissons, and Senlis. Have you anything to say, Brigadier Gerard?' I am a rough soldier, but I have words and ideas. I had begun to speak about glory and the peril of France when he cut me short. 'And you, Major Charpentier?' 'If we find our route unsafe, are we at liberty to choose another?' said he. 'Soldiers do not choose, they obey.' He inclined his head to show that we were dismissed, and turned round to Berthier. I do not know what he said, but I heard them both laughing. Well, as you may think, we lost little time in getting upon our way. In half an hour we were riding down the High Street of Rheims, and it struck twelve o'clock as we passed the Cathedral. I had my little grey mare, Violette, the one which Sebastiani had wished to buy after Dresden. It is the fastest horse in the six brigades of light cavalry, and was only beaten by the Duke of Rovigo's racer from England. As to Charpentier, he had the kind of horse which a horse grenadier or a cuirassier would be likely to ride: a back like a bedstead, you understand, and legs like the posts. He is a hulking fellow himself, so that they looked a singular pair. And yet in his insane conceit he ogled the girls as they waved their handkerchiefs to me from the windows, and he twirled his ugly red moustache up into his eyes, just as if it were to him that their attention was addressed. When we came out of the town we passed through the French camp, and then across the battle-field of yesterday, which was still covered both by our own poor fellows and by the Russians. But of the two the camp was the sadder sight. Our army was thawing away. The Guards were all right, though the young guard was full of conscripts. The artillery and the heavy cavalry were also good if there were more of them, but the infantry privates with their under officers looked like schoolboys with their masters. And we had no reserves. When one considered that there were 80,000 Prussians to the north and 150,000 Russians and Austrians to the south, it might make even the bravest man grave. For my own part, I confess that I shed a tear until the thought came that the Emperor was still with us, and that on that very morning he had placed his hand upon my dolman and had promised me a medal of honour. This set me singing, and I spurred Violette on, until Charpentier had to beg me to have mercy on his great, snorting, panting camel. The road was beaten into paste and rutted two feet deep by the artillery, so that he was right in saying that it was not the place for a gallop. I have never been very friendly with this Charpentier; and now for twenty miles of the way I could not draw a word from him. He rode with his brows puckered and his chin upon his breast, like a man who is heavy with thought. More than once I asked him what was on his mind, thinking that, perhaps, with my quicker intelligence I might set the matter straight. His answer always was that it was his mission of which he was thinking, which surprised me, because, although I had never thought much of his intelligence, still it seemed to me to be impossible that anyone could be puzzled by so simple and soldierly a task. Well, we came at last to Bazoches, where he was to take the southern road and I the northern. He half turned in his saddle before he left me, and he looked at me with a singular expression of inquiry in his face. 'What do you make of it, Brigadier?' he asked. 'Of what?' 'Of our mission.' 'Surely it is plain enough.' 'You think so? Why should the Emperor tell us his plans?' 'Because he recognized our intelligence.' My companion laughed in a manner which I found annoying. 'May I ask what you intend to do if you find these villages full of Prussians?' he asked. 'I shall obey my orders.' 'But you will be killed.' 'Very possibly.' He laughed again, and so offensively that I clapped my hand to my sword. But before I could tell him what I thought of his stupidity and rudeness he had wheeled his horse, and was lumbering away down the other road. I saw his big fur cap vanish over the brow of the hill, and then I rode upon my way, wondering at his conduct. From time to time I put my hand to the breast of my tunic and felt the paper crackle beneath my fingers. Ah, my precious paper, which should be turned into the little silver medal for which I had yearned so long. All the way from Braine to Sermoise I was thinking of what my mother would say when she saw it. I stopped to give Violette a meal at a wayside auberge on the side of a hill not far from Soissons--a place surrounded by old oaks, and with so many crows that one could scarce hear one's own voice. It was from the innkeeper that I learned that Marmont had fallen back two days before, and that the Prussians were over the Aisne. An hour later, in the fading light, I saw two of their vedettes upon the hill to the right, and then, as darkness gathered, the heavens to the north were all glimmering from the lights of a bivouac. When I heard that Blucher had been there for two days, I was much surprised that the Emperor should not have known that the country through which he had ordered me to carry my precious letter was already occupied by the enemy. Still, I thought of the tone of his voice when he said to Charpentier that a soldier must not choose, but must obey. I should follow the route he had laid down for me as long as Violette could move a hoof or I a finger upon her bridle. All the way from Sermoise to Soissons, where the road dips up and down, curving among fir woods, I kept my pistol ready and my sword-belt braced, pushing on swiftly where the path was straight, and then coming slowly round the corners in the way we learned in Spain. When I came to the farmhouse which lies to the right of the road just after you cross the wooden bridge over the Crise, near where the great statue of the Virgin stands, a woman cried to me from the field, saying that the Prussians were in Soissons. A small party of their lancers, she said, had come in that very afternoon, and a whole division was expected before midnight. I did not wait to hear the end of her tale, but clapped spurs into Violette, and in five minutes was galloping her into the town. Three Uhlans were at the mouth of the main street, their horses tethered, and they gossiping together, each with a pipe as long as my sabre. I saw them well in the light of an open door, but of me they could have seen only the flash of Violette's grey side and the black flutter of my cloak. A moment later I flew through a stream of them rushing from an open gateway. Violette's shoulder sent one of them reeling, and I stabbed at another but missed him. Pang, pang, went two carbines, but I had flown round the curve of the street, and never so much as heard the hiss of the balls. Ah, we were great, both Violette and I. She lay down to it like a coursed hare, the fire flying from her hoofs. I stood in my stirrups and brandished my sword. Someone sprang for my bridle. I sliced him through the arm, and I heard him howling behind me. Two horsemen closed upon me. I cut one down and outpaced the other. A minute later I was clear of the town, and flying down a broad white road with the black poplars on either side. For a time I heard the rattle of hoofs behind me, but they died and died until I could not tell them from the throbbing of my own heart. Soon I pulled up and listened, but all was silent. They had given up the chase. Well, the first thing that I did was to dismount and to lead my mare into a small wood through which a stream ran. There I watered her and rubbed her down, giving her two pieces of sugar soaked in cognac from my flask. She was spent from the sharp chase, but it was wonderful to see how she came round with a half-hour's rest. When my thighs closed upon her again, I could tell by the spring and the swing of her that it would not be her fault if I did not win my way safe to Paris. I must have been well within the enemy's lines now, for I heard a number of them shouting one of their rough drinking songs out of a house by the roadside, and I went round by the fields to avoid it. At another time two men came out into the moonlight (for by this time it was a cloudless night) and shouted something in German, but I galloped on without heeding them, and they were afraid to fire, for their own hussars are dressed exactly as I was. It is best to take no notice at these times, and then they put you down as a deaf man. It was a lovely moon, and every tree threw a black bar across the road. I could see the countryside just as if it were daytime, and very peaceful it looked, save that there was a great fire raging somewhere in the north. In the silence of the night-time, and with the knowledge that danger was in front and behind me, the sight of that great distant fire was very striking and awesome. But I am not easily clouded, for I have seen too many singular things, so I hummed a tune between my teeth and thought of little Lisette, whom I might see in Paris. My mind was full of her when, trotting round a corner, I came straight upon half-a-dozen German dragoons, who were sitting round a brushwood fire by the roadside. I am an excellent soldier. I do not say this because I am prejudiced in my own favour, but because I really am so. I can weigh every chance in a moment, and decide with as much certainty as though I had brooded for a week. Now I saw like a flash that, come what might, I should be chased, and on a horse which had already done a long twelve leagues. But it was better to be chased onwards than to be chased back. On this moonlit night, with fresh horses behind me, I must take my risk in either case; but if I were to shake them off, I preferred that it should be near Senlis than near Soissons. All this flashed on me as if by instinct, you understand. My eyes had hardly rested on the bearded faces under the brass helmets before my rowels had touched Violette, and she was off with a rattle like a pas-de-charge. Oh, the shouting and rushing and stamping from behind us! Three of them fired and three swung themselves on to their horses. A bullet rapped on the crupper of my saddle with a noise like a stick on a door. Violette sprang madly forward, and I thought she had been wounded, but it was only a graze above the near fore-fetlock. Ah, the dear little mare, how I loved her when I felt her settle down into that long, easy gallop of hers, her hoofs going like a Spanish girl's castanets. I could not hold myself. I turned on my saddle and shouted and raved, 'Vive l'Empereur!' I screamed and laughed at the gust of oaths that came back to me. But it was not over yet. If she had been fresh she might have gained a mile in five. Now she could only hold her own with a very little over. There was one of them, a young boy of an officer, who was better mounted than the others. He drew ahead with every stride. Two hundred yards behind him were two troopers, but I saw every time that I glanced round that the distance between them was increasing. The other three who had waited to shoot were a long way in the rear. The officer's mount was a bay--a fine horse, though not to be spoken of with Violette; yet it was a powerful brute, and it seemed to me that in a few miles its freshness might tell. I waited until the lad was a long way in front of his comrades, and then I eased my mare down a little--a very, very little, so that he might think he was really catching me. When he came within pistol-shot of me I drew and cocked my own pistol, and laid my chin upon my shoulder to see what he would do. He did not offer to fire, and I soon discerned the cause. The silly boy had taken his pistols from his holsters when he had camped for the night. He wagged his sword at me now and roared some threat or other. He did not seem to understand that he was at my mercy. I eased Violette down until there was not the length of a long lance between the grey tail and the bay muzzle. 'Rendez-vous!' he yelled. 'I must compliment monsieur upon his French,' said I, resting the barrel of my pistol upon my bridle-arm, which I have always found best when shooting from the saddle. I aimed at his face, and could see, even in the moonlight, how white he grew when he understood that it was all up with him. But even as my finger pressed the trigger I thought of his mother, and I put my ball through his horse's shoulder. I fear he hurt himself in the fall, for it was a fearful crash, but I had my letter to think of, so I stretched the mare into a gallop once more. But they were not so easily shaken off, these brigands. The two troopers thought no more of their young officer than if he had been a recruit thrown in the riding-school. They left him to the others and thundered on after me. I had pulled up on the brow of a hill, thinking that I had heard the last of them; but, my faith, I soon saw there was no time for loitering, so away we went, the mare tossing her head and I my shako, to show what we thought of two dragoons who tried to catch a hussar. But at this moment, even while I laughed at the thought, my heart stood still within me, for there at the end of the long white road was a black patch of cavalry waiting to receive me. To a young soldier it might have seemed the shadow of the trees, but to me it was a troop of hussars, and, turn where I could, death seemed to be waiting for me. Well, I had the dragoons behind me and the hussars in front. Never since Moscow have I seemed to be in such peril. But for the honour of the brigade I had rather be cut down by a light cavalryman than by a heavy. I never drew bridle, therefore, or hesitated for an instant, but I let Violette have her head. I remember that I tried to pray as I rode, but I am a little out of practice at such things, and the only words I could remember were the prayer for fine weather which we used at the school on the evening before holidays. Even this seemed better than nothing, and I was pattering it out, when suddenly I heard French voices in front of me. Ah, mon Dieu, but the joy went through my heart like a musket-ball. They were ours--our own dear little rascals from the corps of Marmont. Round whisked my two dragoons and galloped for their lives, with the moon gleaming on their brass helmets, while I trotted up to my friends with no undue haste, for I would have them understand that though a hussar may fly, it is not in his nature to fly very fast. Yet I fear that Violette's heaving flanks and foam-spattered muzzle gave the lie to my careless bearing. Who should be at the head of the troop but old Bouvet, whom I saved at Leipzig! When he saw me his little pink eyes filled with tears, and, indeed, I could not but shed a few myself at the sight of his joy. I told him of my mission, but he laughed when I said that I must pass through Senlis. 'The enemy is there,' said he. 'You cannot go.' 'I prefer to go where the enemy is,' I answered. 'But why not go straight to Paris with your despatch? Why should you choose to pass through the one place where you are almost sure to be taken or killed?' 'A soldier does not choose--he obeys,' said I, just as I had heard Napoleon say it. Old Bouvet laughed in his wheezy way, until I had to give my moustachios a twirl and look him up and down in a manner which brought him to reason. 'Well', said he, 'you had best come along with us, for we are all bound for Senlis. Our orders are to reconnoitre the place. A squadron of Poniatowski's Polish Lancers are in front of us. If you must ride through it, it is possible that we may be able to go with you.' So away we went, jingling and clanking through the quiet night until we came up with the Poles--fine old soldiers all of them, though a trifle heavy for their horses. It was a treat to see them, for they could not have carried themselves better if they had belonged to my own brigade. We rode together, until in the early morning we saw the lights of Senlis. A peasant was coming along with a cart, and from him we learned how things were going there. His information was certain, for his brother was the Mayor's coachman, and he had spoken with him late the night before. There was a single squadron of Cossacks--or a polk, as they call it in their frightful language--quartered upon the Mayor's house, which stands at the corner of the market-place, and is the largest building in the town. A whole division of Prussion infantry was encamped in the woods to the north, but only the Cossacks were in Senlis. Ah, what a chance to avenge ourselves upon these barbarians, whose cruelty to our poor countryfolk was the talk at every camp fire. We were into the town like a torrent, hacked down the vedettes, rode over the guard, and were smashing in the doors of the Mayor's house before they understood that there was a Frenchman within twenty miles of them. We saw horrid heads at the windows--heads bearded to the temples, with tangled hair and sheepskin caps, and silly, gaping mouths. 'Hourra! Hourra!' they shrieked, and fired with their carbines, but our fellows were into the house and at their throats before they had wiped the sleep out of their eyes. It was dreadful to see how the Poles flung themselves upon them, like starving wolves upon a herd of fat bucks--for, as you know, the Poles have a blood feud against the Cossacks. The most were killed in the upper rooms, whither they had fled for shelter, and the blood was pouring down into the hall like rain from a roof. They are terrible soldiers, these Poles, though I think they are a trifle heavy for their horses. Man for man, they are as big as Kellerman's cuirassiers. Their equipment is, of course, much lighter, since they are without the cuirass, back-plate, and helmet. Well, it was at this point that I made an error--a very serious error it must be admitted. Up to this moment I had carried out my mission in a manner which only my modesty prevents me from describing as remarkable. But now I did that which an official would condemn and a soldier excuse. There is no doubt that the mare was spent, but still it is true that I might have galloped on through Senlis and reached the country, where I should have had no enemy between me and Paris. But what hussar can ride past a fight and never draw rein? It is to ask too much of him. Besides, I thought that if Violette had an hour of rest I might have three hours the better at the other end. Then on the top of it came those heads at the windows, with their sheepskin hats and their barbarous cries. I sprang from my saddle, threw Violette's bridle over a rail-post, and ran into the house with the rest. It is true that I was too late to be of service, and that I was nearly wounded by a lance-thrust from one of these dying savages. Still, it is a pity to miss even the smallest affair, for one never knows what opportunity for advancement may present itself. I have seen more soldierly work in outpost skirmishes and little gallop-and-hack affairs of the kind than in any of the Emperor's big battles. When the house was cleared I took a bucket of water out for Violette, and our peasant guide showed me where the good Mayor kept his fodder. My faith, but the little sweetheart was ready for it. Then I sponged down her legs, and leaving her still tethered I went back into the house to find a mouthful for myself, so that I should not need to halt again until I was in Paris. And now I come to the part of my story which may seem singular to you, although I could tell you at least ten things every bit as queer which have happened to me in my lifetime. You can understand that, to a man who spends his life in scouting and vedette duties on the bloody ground which lies between two great armies, there are many chances of strange experiences. I'll tell you, however, exactly what occurred. Old Bouvet was waiting in the passage when I entered, and he asked me whether we might not crack a bottle of wine together. 'My faith, we must not be long,' said he. 'There are ten thousand of Theilmann's Prussians in the woods up yonder.' 'Where is the wine?' I asked. 'Ah, you may trust two hussars to find where the wine is,' said he, and taking a candle in his hand, he led the way down the stone stairs into the kitchen. When we got there we found another door, which opened on to a winding stair with the cellar at the bottom. The Cossacks had been there before us, as was easily seen by the broken bottles littered all over it. However, the Mayor was a _bon-vivant_, and I do not wish to have a better set of bins to pick from. Chambertin, Graves, Alicant, white wine and red, sparkling and still, they lay in pyramids peeping coyly out of sawdust. Old Bouvet stood with his candle looking here and peeping there, purring in his throat like a cat before a milk-pail. He had picked upon a Burgundy at last, and had his hand outstretched to the bottle when there came a roar of musketry from above us, a rush of feet, and such a yelping and screaming as I have never listened to. The Prussians were upon us! Bouvet is a brave man: I will say that for him. He flashed out his sword and away he clattered up the stone steps, his spurs clinking as he ran. I followed him, but just as we came out into the kitchen passage a tremendous shout told us that the house had been recaptured. 'It is all over,' I cried, grasping at Bouvet's sleeve. 'There is one more to die,' he shouted, and away he went like a madman up the second stair. In effect, I should have gone to my death also had I been in his place, for he had done very wrong in not throwing out his scouts to warn him if the Germans advanced upon him. For an instant I was about to rush up with him, and then I bethought myself that, after all, I had my own mission to think of, and that if I were taken the important letter of the Emperor would be sacrificed. I let Bouvet die alone, therefore, and I went down into the cellar again, closing the door behind me. Well, it was not a very rosy prospect down there either. Bouvet had dropped the candle when the alarm came, and I, pawing about in the darkness, could find nothing but broken bottles. At last I came upon the candle, which had rolled under the curve of a cask, but, try as I would with my tinderbox, I could not light it. The reason was that the wick had been wet in a puddle of wine, so suspecting that this might be the case, I cut the end off with my sword. Then I found that it lighted easily enough. But what to do I could not imagine. The scoundrels upstairs were shouting themselves hoarse, several hundred of them from the sound, and it was clear that some of them would soon want to moisten their throats. There would be an end to a dashing soldier, and of the mission and of the medal. I thought of my mother and I thought of the Emperor. It made me weep to think that the one would lose so excellent a son and the other the best light cavalry officer he ever had since Lasalle's time. But presently I dashed the tears from my eyes. 'Courage!' I cried, striking myself upon the chest. 'Courage, my brave boy. Is it possible that one who has come safely from Moscow without so much as a frost-bite will die in a French wine-cellar?' At the thought I was up on my feet and clutching at the letter in my tunic, for the crackle of it gave me courage. My first plan was to set fire to the house, in the hope of escaping in the confusion. My second to get into an empty wine-cask. I was looking round to see if I could find one, when suddenly, in the corner, I espied a little low door, painted of the same grey colour as the wall, so that it was only a man with quick sight who would have noticed it. I pushed against it, and at first I imagined that it was locked. Presently, however, it gave a little, and then I understood that it was held by the pressure of something on the other side. I put my feet against a hogshead of wine, and I gave such a push that the door flew open and I came down with a crash upon my back, the candle flying out of my hands, so that I found myself in darkness once more. I picked myself up and stared through the black archway into the gloom beyond. There was a slight ray of light coming from some slit or grating. The dawn had broken outside, and I could dimly see the long, curving sides of several huge casks, which made me think that perhaps this was where the Mayor kept his reserves of wine while they were maturing. At any rate, it seemed to be a safer hiding-place than the outer cellar, so gathering up my candle, I was just closing the door behind me, when I suddenly saw something which filled me with amazement, and even, I confess, with the smallest little touch of fear. I have said that at the further end of the cellar there was a dim grey fan of light striking downwards from somewhere near the roof. Well, as I peered through the darkness, I suddenly saw a great, tall man skip into this belt of daylight, and then out again into the darkness at the further end. My word, I gave such a start that my shako nearly broke its chin-strap! It was only a glance, but, none the less, I had time to see that the fellow had a hairy Cossack cap on his head, and that he was a great, long-legged, broad-shouldered brigand, with a sabre at his waist. My faith, even Etienne Gerard was a little staggered at being left alone with such a creature in the dark. But only for a moment. 'Courage!' I thought. 'Am I not a hussar, a brigadier, too, at the age of thirty-one, and the chosen messenger of the Emperor?' After all, this skulker had more cause to be afraid of me than I of him. And then suddenly I understood that he was afraid--horribly afraid. I could read it from his quick step and his bent shoulders as he ran among the barrels, like a rat making for its hole. And, of course, it must have been he who had held the door against me, and not some packing-case or wine-cask as I had imagined. He was the pursued then, and I the pursuer. Aha, I felt my whiskers bristle as I advanced upon him through the darkness! He would find that he had no chicken to deal with, this robber from the North. For the moment I was magnificent. At first I had feared to light my candle lest I should make a mark of myself, but now, after cracking my shin over a box, and catching my spurs in some canvas, I thought the bolder course the wiser. I lit it, therefore, and then I advanced with long strides, my sword in my hand. 'Come out, you rascal!' I cried. 'Nothing can save you. You will at last meet with your deserts.' I held my candle high, and presently I caught a glimpse of the man's head staring at me over a barrel. He had a gold chevron on his black cap, and the expression of his face told me in an instant that he was an officer and a man of refinement. 'Monsieur,' he cried, in excellent French, 'I surrender myself on a promise of quarter. But if I do not have your promise, I will then sell my life as dearly as I can.' 'Sir,' said I, 'a Frenchman knows how to treat an unfortunate enemy. Your life is safe.' With that he handed his sword over the top of the barrel, and I bowed with the candle on my heart. 'Whom have I the honour of capturing?' I asked. 'I am the Count Boutkine, of the Emperor's own Don Cossacks,' said he. 'I came out with my troop to reconnoitre Senlis, and as we found no sign of your people we determined to spend the night here.' 'And would it be an indiscretion,' I asked, 'if I were to inquire how you came into the back cellar?' 'Nothing more simple,' said he. 'It was our intention to start at early dawn. Feeling chilled after dressing, I thought that a cup of wine would do me no harm, so I came down to see what I could find. As I was rummaging about, the house was suddenly carried by assault so rapidly that by the time I had climbed the stairs it was all over. It only remained for me to save myself, so I came down here and hid myself in the back cellar, where you have found me.' I thought of how old Bouvet had behaved under the same conditions, and the tears sprang to my eyes as I contemplated the glory of France. Then I had to consider what I should do next. It was clear that this Russian Count, being in the back cellar while we were in the front one, had not heard the sounds which would have told him that the house was once again in the hands of his own allies. If he should once understand this the tables would be turned, and I should be his prisoner instead of he being mine. What was I to do? I was at my wits' end, when suddenly there came to me an idea so brilliant that I could not but be amazed at my own invention. 'Count Boutkine,' said I, 'I find myself in a most difficult position.' 'And why?' he asked. 'Because I have promised you your life.' His jaw dropped a little. 'You would not withdraw your promise?' he cried. 'If the worst comes to the worst I can die in your defence,' said I; 'but the difficulties are great.' 'What is it, then?' he asked. 'I will be frank with you,' said I. 'You must know that our fellows, and especially the Poles, are so incensed against the Cossacks that the mere sight of the uniform drives them mad. They precipitate themselves instantly upon the wearer and tear him limb from limb. Even their officers cannot restrain them.' The Russian grew pale at my words and the way in which I said them. 'But this is terrible,' said he. 'Horrible!' said I. 'If we were to go up together at this moment I cannot promise how far I could protect you.' 'I am in your hands,' he cried. 'What would you suggest that we should do? Would it not be best that I should remain here?' 'That worst of all.' 'And why?' 'Because our fellows will ransack the house presently, and then you would be cut to pieces. No, no, I must go and break it to them. But even then, when once they see that accursed uniform, I do not know what may happen.' 'Should I then take the uniform off?' 'Excellent!' I cried. 'Hold, we have it! You will take your uniform off and put on mine. That will make you sacred to every French soldier.' 'It is not the French I fear so much as the Poles.' 'But my uniform will be a safeguard against either.' 'How can I thank you?' he cried. 'But you--what are you to wear?' 'I will wear yours.' 'And perhaps fall a victim to your generosity?' 'It is my duty to take the risk,' I answered; 'but I have no fears. I will ascend in your uniform. A hundred swords will be turned upon me. "Hold!" I will shout, "I am the Brigadier Gerard!" Then they will see my face. They will know me. And I will tell them about you. Under the shield of these clothes you will be sacred.' His fingers trembled with eagerness as he tore off his tunic. His boots and breeches were much like my own, so there was no need to change them, but I gave him my hussar jacket, my dolman, my shako, my sword-belt, and my sabre-tasche, while I took in exchange his high sheepskin cap with the gold chevron, his fur-trimmed coat, and his crooked sword. Be it well understood that in changing the tunics I did not forget to change my thrice-precious letter also from my old one to my new. 'With your leave,' said I, 'I shall now bind you to a barrel.' He made a great fuss over this, but I have learned in my soldiering never to throw away chances, and how could I tell that he might not, when my back was turned, see how the matter really stood, and break in upon my plans? He was leaning against a barrel at the time, so I ran six times round it with a rope, and then tied it with a big knot behind. If he wished to come upstairs he would, at least, have to carry a thousand litres of good French wine for a knapsack. I then shut the door of the back cellar behind me, so that he might not hear what was going forward, and tossing the candle away I ascended the kitchen stair. There were only about twenty steps, and yet, while I came up them, I seemed to have time to think of everything that I had ever hoped to do. It was the same feeling that I had at Eylau when I lay with my broken leg and saw the horse artillery galloping down upon me. Of course, I knew that if I were taken I should be shot instantly as being disguised within the enemy's lines. Still, it was a glorious death--in the direct service of the Emperor--and I reflected that there could not be less than five lines, and perhaps seven, in the _Moniteur_ about me. Palaret had eight lines, and I am sure that he had not so fine a career. When I made my way out into the hall, with all the nonchalance in my face and manner that I could assume, the very first thing that I saw was Bouvet's dead body, with his legs drawn up and a broken sword in his hand. I could see by the black smudge that he had been shot at close quarters. I should have wished to salute as I went by, for he was a gallant man, but I feared lest I should be seen, and so I passed on. The front of the hall was full of Prussian infantry, who were knocking loopholes in the wall, as though they expected that there might be yet another attack. Their officer, a little man, was running about giving directions. They were all too busy to take much notice of me, but another officer, who was standing by the door with a long pipe in his mouth, strode across and clapped me on the shoulder, pointing to the dead bodies of our poor hussars, and saying something which was meant for a jest, for his long beard opened and showed every fang in his head. I laughed heartily also, and said the only Russian words that I knew. I learned them from little Sophie, at Wilna, and they meant: 'If the night is fine we shall meet under the oak tree, but if it rains we shall meet in the byre.' It was all the same to this German, however, and I have no doubt that he gave me credit for saying something very witty indeed, for he roared laughing, and slapped me on my shoulder again. I nodded to him and marched out of the hall-door as coolly as if I were the commandant of the garrison. There were a hundred horses tethered about outside, most of them belonging to the Poles and hussars. Good little Violette was waiting with the others, and she whinnied when she saw me coming towards her. But I would not mount her. No. I was much too cunning for that. On the contrary, I chose the most shaggy little Cossack horse that I could see, and I sprang upon it with as much assurance as though it had belonged to my father before me. It had a great bag of plunder slung over its neck, and this I laid upon Violette's back, and led her along beside me. Never have you seen such a picture of the Cossack returning from the foray. It was superb. Well, the town was full of Prussians by this time. They lined the side-walks and pointed me out to each other, saying, as I could judge from their gestures, 'There goes one of those devils of Cossacks. They are the boys for foraging and plunder.' One or two officers spoke to me with an air of authority, but I shook my head and smiled, and said, 'If the night is fine we shall meet under the oak tree, but if it rains we shall meet in the byre,' at which they shrugged their shoulders and gave the matter up. In this way I worked along until I was beyond the northern outskirt of the town. I could see in the roadway two lancer vedettes with their black and white pennons, and I knew that when I was once past these I should be a free man once more. I made my pony trot, therefore, Violette rubbing her nose against my knee all the time, and looking up at me to ask how she had deserved that this hairy doormat of a creature should be preferred to her. I was not more than a hundred yards from the Uhlans when, suddenly, you can imagine my feelings when I saw a real Cossack coming galloping along the road towards me. Ah, my friend, you who read this, if you have any heart, you will feel for a man like me, who had gone through so many dangers and trials, only at this very last moment to be confronted with one which appeared to put an end to everything. I will confess that for a moment I lost heart, and was inclined to throw myself down in my despair, and to cry out that I had been betrayed. But, no; I was not beaten even now. I opened two buttons of my tunic so that I might get easily at the Emperor's message, for it was my fixed determination when all hope was gone to swallow the letter and then die sword in hand. Then I felt that my little, crooked sword was loose in its sheath, and I trotted on to where the vedettes were waiting. They seemed inclined to stop me, but I pointed to the other Cossack, who was still a couple of hundred yards off, and they, understanding that I merely wished to meet him, let me pass with a salute. I dug my spurs into my pony then, for if I were only far enough from the lancers I thought I might manage the Cossack without much difficulty. He was an officer, a large, bearded man, with a gold chevron in his cap, just the same as mine. As I advanced he unconsciously aided me by pulling up his horse, so that I had a fine start of the vedettes. On I came for him, and I could see wonder changing to suspicion in his brown eyes as he looked at me and at my pony, and at my equipment. I do not know what it was that was wrong, but he saw something which was as it should not be. He shouted out a question, and then when I gave no answer he pulled out his sword. I was glad in my heart to see him do so, for I had always rather fight than cut down an unsuspecting enemy. Now I made at him full tilt, and, parrying his cut, I got my point in just under the fourth button of his tunic. Down he went, and the weight of him nearly took me off my horse before I could disengage. I never glanced at him to see if he were living or dead, for I sprang off my pony and on to Violette, with a shake of my bridle and a kiss of my hand to the two Uhlans behind me. They galloped after me, shouting, but Violette had had her rest, and was just as fresh as when she started. I took the first side road to the west and then the first to the south, which would take me away from the enemy's country. On we went and on, every stride taking me further from my foes and nearer to my friends. At last, when I reached the end of a long stretch of road, and looking back from it could see no sign of any pursuers, I understood that my troubles were over. And it gave me a glow of happiness, as I rode, to think that I had done to the letter what the Emperor had ordered. What would he say when he saw me? What could he say which would do justice to the incredible way in which I had risen above every danger? He had ordered me to go through Sermoise, Soissons, and Senlis, little dreaming that they were all three occupied by the enemy. And yet I had done it. I had borne his letter in safety through each of these towns. Hussars, dragoons, lancers, Cossacks, and infantry--I had run the gauntlet of all of them, and had come out unharmed. When I had got as far as Dammartin I caught a first glimpse of our own outposts. There was a troop of dragoons in a field, and of course I could see from the horsehair crests that they were French. I galloped towards them in order to ask them if all was safe between there and Paris, and as I rode I felt such a pride at having won my way back to my friends again, that I could not refrain from waving my sword in the air. At this a young officer galloped out from among the dragoons, also brandishing his sword, and it warmed my heart to think that he should come riding with such ardour and enthusiasm to greet me. I made Violette caracole, and as we came together I brandished my sword more gallantly than ever, but you can imagine my feelings when he suddenly made a cut at me which would certainly have taken my head off if I had not fallen forward with my nose in Violette's mane. My faith, it whistled just over my cap like an east wind. Of course, it came from this accursed Cossack uniform which, in my excitement, I had forgotten all about, and this young dragoon had imagined that I was some Russian champion who was challenging the French cavalry. My word, he was a frightened man when he understood how near he had been to killing the celebrated Brigadier Gerard. Well, the road was clear, and about three o'clock in the afternoon I was at St Denis, though it took me a long two hours to get from there to Paris, for the road was blocked with commissariat waggons and guns of the artillery reserve, which was going north to Marmont and Mortier. You cannot conceive the excitement which my appearance in such a costume made in Paris, and when I came to the Rue de Rivoli I should think I had a quarter of a mile of folk riding or running behind me. Word had got about from the dragoons (two of whom had come with me), and everybody knew about my adventures and how I had come by my uniform. It was a triumph--men shouting and women waving their handkerchiefs and blowing kisses from the windows. Although I am a man singularly free from conceit, still I must confess that, on this one occasion, I could not restrain myself from showing that this reception gratified me. The Russian's coat had hung very loose upon me, but now I threw out my chest until it was as tight as a sausage-skin. And my little sweetheart of a mare tossed her mane and pawed with her front hoofs, frisking her tail about as though she said, 'We've done it together this time. It is to us that commissions should be intrusted.' When I kissed her between the nostrils as I dismounted at the gate of the Tuileries, there was as much shouting as if a bulletin had been read from the Grand Army. I was hardly in costume to visit a King; but, after all, if one has a soldierly figure one can do without all that. I was shown up straight away to Joseph, whom I had often seen in Spain. He seemed as stout, as quiet, and as amiable as ever. Talleyrand was in the room with him, or I suppose I should call him the Duke of Benevento, but I confess that I like old names best. He read my letter when Joseph Buonaparte handed it to him, and then he looked at me with the strangest expression in those funny little, twinkling eyes of his. 'Were you the only messenger?' he asked. 'There was one other, sir,' said I. 'Major Charpentier, of the Horse Grenadiers.' 'He has not yet arrived,' said the King of Spain. 'If you had seen the legs of his horse, sire, you would not wonder at it,' I remarked. 'There may be other reasons,' said Talleyrand, and he gave that singular smile of his. Well, they paid me a compliment or two, though they might have said a good deal more and yet have said too little. I bowed myself out, and very glad I was to get away, for I hate a Court as much as I love a camp. Away I went to my old friend Chaubert, in the Rue Miromesnil, and there I got his hussar uniform, which fitted me very well. He and Lisette and I supped together in his rooms, and all my dangers were forgotten. In the morning I found Violette ready for another twenty-league stretch. It was my intention to return instantly to the Emperor's headquarters, for I was, as you may well imagine, impatient to hear his words of praise, and to receive my reward. I need not say that I rode back by a safe route, for I had seen quite enough of Uhlans and Cossacks. I passed through Meaux and Château Thierry, and so in the evening I arrived at Rheims, where Napoleon was still lying. The bodies of our fellows and of St Prest's Russians had all been buried, and I could see changes in the camp also. The soldiers looked better cared for; some of the cavalry had received remounts, and everything was in excellent order. It was wonderful what a good general can effect in a couple of days. When I came to the headquarters I was shown straight into the Emperor's room. He was drinking coffee at a writing-table, with a big plan drawn out on paper in front of him. Berthier and Macdonald were leaning, one over each shoulder, and he was talking so quickly that I don't believe that either of them could catch a half of what he was saying. But when his eyes fell upon me he dropped the pen on to the chart, and he sprang up with a look in his pale face which struck me cold. 'What the deuce are you doing here?' he shouted. When he was angry he had a voice like a peacock. 'I have the honour to report to you, sire,' said I, 'that I have delivered your despatch safely to the King of Spain.' 'What!' he yelled, and his two eyes transfixed me like bayonets. Oh, those dreadful eyes, shifting from grey to blue, like steel in the sunshine. I can see them now when I have a bad dream. 'What has become of Charpentier?' he asked. 'He is captured,' said Macdonald. 'By whom?' 'The Russians.' 'The Cossacks?' 'No, a single Cossack.' 'He gave himself up?' 'Without resistance.' 'He is an intelligent officer. You will see that the medal of honour is awarded to him.' When I heard those words I had to rub my eyes to make sure that I was awake. 'As to you,' cried the Emperor, taking a step forward as if he would have struck me, 'you brain of a hare, what do you think that you were sent upon this mission for? Do you conceive that I would send a really important message by such a hand as yours, and through every village which the enemy holds? How you came through them passes my comprehension; but if your fellow-messenger had had but as little sense as you, my whole plan of campaign would have been ruined. Can you not see, coglione, that this message contained false news, and that it was intended to deceive the enemy whilst I put a very different scheme into execution?' When I heard those cruel words and saw the angry, white face which glared at me, I had to hold the back of a chair, for my mind was failing me and my knees would hardly bear me up. But then I took courage as I reflected that I was an honourable gentleman, and that my whole life had been spent in toiling for this man and for my beloved country. 'Sire,' said I, and the tears would trickle down my cheeks whilst I spoke, 'when you are dealing with a man like me you would find it wiser to deal openly. Had I known that you had wished the despatch to fall into the hands of the enemy, I would have seen that it came there. As I believed that I was to guard it, I was prepared to sacrifice my life for it. I do not believe, sire, that any man in the world ever met with more toils and perils than I have done in trying to carry out what I thought was your will.' I dashed the tears from my eyes as I spoke, and with such fire and spirit as I could command I gave him an account of it all, of my dash through Soissons, my brush with the dragoons, my adventure in Senlis, my rencontre with Count Boutkine in the cellar, my disguise, my meeting with the Cossack officer, my flight, and how at the last moment I was nearly cut down by a French dragoon. The Emperor, Berthier, and Macdonald listened with astonishment on their faces. When I had finished Napoleon stepped forward and he pinched me by the ear. 'There, there!' said he. 'Forget anything which I may have said. I would have done better to trust you. You may go.' I turned to the door, and my hand was upon the handle, when the Emperor called upon me to stop. 'You will see,' said he, turning to the Duke of Tarentum, 'that Brigadier Gerard has the special medal of honour, for I believe that if he has the thickest head he has also the stoutest heart in my army.' 8. HOW THE BRIGADIER WAS TEMPTED BY THE DEVIL The spring is at hand, my friends. I can see the little green spear-heads breaking out once more upon the chestnut trees, and the cafe tables have all been moved into the sunshine. It is more pleasant to sit there, and yet I do not wish to tell my little stories to the whole town. You have heard my doings as a lieutenant, as a squadron officer, as a colonel, as the chief of a brigade. But now I suddenly become something higher and more important. I become history. If you have read of those closing years of the life of the Emperor which were spent in the Island of St Helena, you will remember that, again and again, he implored permission to send out one single letter which should be unopened by those who held him. Many times he made this request, and even went so far as to promise that he would provide for his own wants and cease to be an expense to the British Government if it were granted to him. But his guardians knew that he was a terrible man, this pale, fat gentleman in the straw hat, and they dared not grant him what he asked. Many have wondered who it was to whom he could have had anything so secret to say. Some have supposed that it was to his wife, and some that it was to his father-in-law; some that it was to the Emperor Alexander, and some to Marshal Soult. What will you think of me, my friends, when I tell you it was to me--to me, the Brigadier Gerard--that the Emperor wished to write? Yes, humble as you see me, with only my 100 francs a month of half-pay between me and hunger, it is none the less true that I was always in the Emperor's mind, and that he would have given his left hand for five minutes' talk with me. I will tell you tonight how this came about. It was after the Battle of Fére-Champenoise where the conscripts in their blouses and their sabots made such a fine stand, that we, the more long-headed of us, began to understand that it was all over with us. Our reserve ammunition had been taken in the battle, and we were left with silent guns and empty caissons. Our cavalry, too, was in a deplorable condition, and my own brigade had been destroyed in the charge at Craonne. Then came the news that the enemy had taken Paris, that the citizens had mounted the white cockade; and finally, most terrible of all, that Marmont and his corps had gone over to the Bourbons. We looked at each other and asked how many more of our generals were going to turn against us. Already there were Jourdan, Marmont, Murat, Bernadotte, and Jomini--though nobody minded much about Jomini, for his pen was always sharper than his sword. We had been ready to fight Europe, but it looked now as though we were to fight Europe and half of France as well. We had come to Fontainebleau by a long, forced march, and there we were assembled, the poor remnants of us, the corps of Ney, the corps of my cousin Gerard, and the corps of Macdonald: twenty-five thousand in all, with seven thousand of the guard. But we had our prestige, which was worth fifty thousand, and our Emperor, who was worth fifty thousand more. He was always among us, serene, smiling, confident, taking his snuff and playing with his little riding-whip. Never in the days of his greatest victories have I admired him as much as I did during the Campaign of France. One evening I was with a few of my officers, drinking a glass of wine of Suresnes. I mention that it was wine of Suresnes just to show you that times were not very good with us. Suddenly I was disturbed by a message from Berthier that he wished to see me. When I speak of my old comrades-in-arms, I will, with your permission, leave out all the fine foreign titles which they had picked up during the wars. They are excellent for a Court, but you never heard them in the camp, for we could not afford to do away with our Ney, our Rapp, or our Soult--names which were as stirring to our ears as the blare of our trumpets blowing the reveille. It was Berthier, then, who sent to say that he wished to see me. He had a suite of rooms at the end of the gallery of Francis the First, not very far from those of the Emperor. In the ante-chamber were waiting two men whom I knew well: Colonel Despienne, of the 57th of the line, and Captain Tremeau, of the Voltigeurs. They were both old soldiers--Tremeau had carried a musket in Egypt--and they were also both famous in the army for their courage and their skill with weapons. Tremeau had become a little stiff in the wrist, but Despienne was capable at his best of making me exert myself. He was a tiny fellow, about three inches short of the proper height for a man--he was exactly three inches shorter than myself--but both with the sabre and with the small-sword he had several times almost held his own against me when we used to exhibit at Verron's Hall of Arms in the Palais Royal. You may think that it made us sniff something in the wind when we found three such men called together into one room. You cannot see the lettuce and dressing without suspecting a salad. 'Name of a pipe!' said Tremeau, in his barrack-room fashion. 'Are we then expecting three champions of the Bourbons?' To all of us the idea appeared not improbable. Certainly in the whole army we were the very three who might have been chosen to meet them. 'The Prince of Neufchâtel desires to speak with the Brigadier Gerard,' said a footman, appearing at the door. In I went, leaving my two companions consumed with impatience behind me. It was a small room, but very gorgeously furnished. Berthier was seated opposite to me at a little table, with a pen in his hand and a note-book open before him. He was looking weary and slovenly--very different from that Berthier who used to give the fashion to the army, and who had so often set us poorer officers tearing our hair by trimming his pelisse with fur one campaign, and with grey astrakhan the next. On his clean-shaven, comely face there was an expression of trouble, and he looked at me as I entered his chamber in a way which had in it something furtive and displeasing. 'Chief of Brigade Gerard!' said he. 'At your service, your Highness!' I answered. 'I must ask you, before I go further, to promise me, upon your honour as a gentleman and a soldier, that what is about to pass between us shall never be mentioned to any third person.' My word, this was a fine beginning! I had no choice but to give the promise required. 'You must know, then, that it is all over with the Emperor,' said he, looking down at the table and speaking very slowly, as if he had a hard task in getting out the words. 'Jourdan at Rouen and Marmont at Paris have both mounted the white cockade, and it is rumoured that Talleyrand has talked Ney into doing the same. It is evident that further resistance is useless, and that it can only bring misery upon our country. I wish to ask you, therefore, whether you are prepared to join me in laying hands upon the Emperor's person, and bringing the war to a conclusion by delivering him over to the allies?' I assure you that when I heard this infamous proposition put forward by the man who had been the earliest friend of the Emperor, and who had received greater favours from him than any of his followers, I could only stand and stare at him in amazement. For his part he tapped his pen-handle against his teeth, and looked at me with a slanting head. 'Well?' he asked. 'I am a little deaf on one side,' said I, coldly. 'There are some things which I cannot hear. I beg that you will permit me to return to my duties.' 'Nay, but you must not be headstrong,' rising up and laying his hand upon my shoulder. 'You are aware that the Senate has declared against Napoleon, and that the Emperor Alexander refuses to treat with him.' 'Sir,' I cried, with passion, 'I would have you know that I do not care the dregs of a wine-glass for the Senate or for the Emperor Alexander either.' 'Then for what do you care?' 'For my own honour and for the service of my glorious master, the Emperor Napoleon.' 'That is all very well,' said Berthier, peevishly, shrugging his shoulders. 'Facts are facts, and as men of the world, we must look them in the face. Are we to stand against the will of the nation? Are we to have civil war on the top of all our misfortunes? And, besides, we are thinning away. Every hour comes the news of fresh desertions. We have still time to make our peace, and, indeed, to earn the highest regard, by giving up the Emperor.' I shook so with passion that my sabre clattered against my thigh. 'Sir,' I cried, 'I never thought to have seen the day when a Marshal of France would have so far degraded himself as to put forward such a proposal. I leave you to your own conscience; but as for me, until I have the Emperor's own order, there shall always be the sword of Etienne Gerard between his enemies and himself.' I was so moved by my own words and by the fine position which I had taken up, that my voice broke, and I could hardly refrain from tears. I should have liked the whole army to have seen me as I stood with my head so proudly erect and my hand upon my heart proclaiming my devotion to the Emperor in his adversity. It was one of the supreme moments of my life. 'Very good,' said Berthier, ringing a bell for the lackey. 'You will show the Chief of Brigade Gerard into the salon.' The footman led me into an inner room, where he desired me to be seated. For my own part, my only desire was to get away, and I could not understand why they should wish to detain me. When one has had no change of uniform during a whole winter's campaign, one does not feel at home in a palace. I had been there about a quarter of an hour when the footman opened the door again, and in came Colonel Despienne. Good heavens, what a sight he was! His face was as white as a guardsman's gaiters, his eyes projecting, the veins swollen upon his forehead, and every hair of his moustache bristling like those of an angry cat. He was too angry to speak, and could only shake his hands at the ceiling and make a gurgling in his throat. 'Parricide! Viper!' those were the words that I could catch as he stamped up and down the room. Of course it was evident to me that he had been subjected to the same infamous proposals as I had, and that he had received them in the same spirit. His lips were sealed to me, as mine were to him, by the promise which we had taken, but I contented myself with muttering 'Atrocious! Unspeakable!'--so that he might know that I was in agreement with him. Well, we were still there, he striding furiously up and down, and I seated in the corner, when suddenly a most extraordinary uproar broke out in the room which we had just quitted. There was a snarling, worrying growl, like that of a fierce dog which has got his grip. Then came a crash and a voice calling for help. In we rushed, the two of us, and, my faith, we were none too soon. Old Tremeau and Berthier were rolling together upon the floor, with the table upon the top of them. The Captain had one of his great, skinny yellow hands upon the Marshal's throat, and already his face was lead-coloured, and his eyes were starting from their sockets. As to Tremeau, he was beside himself, with foam upon the corners of his lips, and such a frantic expression upon him that I am convinced, had we not loosened his iron grip, finger by finger, that it would never have relaxed while the Marshal lived. His nails were white with the power of his grasp. 'I have been tempted by the devil!' he cried, as he staggered to his feet. 'Yes, I have been tempted by the devil!' As to Berthier, he could only lean against the wall, and pant for a couple of minutes, putting his hands up to his throat and rolling his head about. Then, with an angry gesture, he turned to the heavy blue curtain which hung behind his chair. The curtain was torn to one side and the Emperor stepped out into the room. We sprang to the salute, we three old soldiers, but it was all like a scene in a dream to us, and our eyes were as far out as Berthier's had been. Napoleon was dressed in his green-coated chasseur uniform, and he held his little, silver-headed switch in his hand. He looked at us each in turn, with a smile upon his face--that frightful smile in which neither eyes nor brow joined--and each in turn had, I believe, a pringling on his skin, for that was the effect which the Emperor's gaze had upon most of us. Then he walked across to Berthier and put his hand upon his shoulder. 'You must not quarrel with blows, my dear Prince,' said he; 'they are your title to nobility.' He spoke in that soft, caressing manner which he could assume. There was no one who could make the French tongue sound so pretty as the Emperor, and no one who could make it more harsh and terrible. 'I believe he would have killed me,' cried Berthier, still rolling his head about. 'Tut, tut! I should have come to your help had these officers not heard your cries. But I trust that you are not really hurt!' He spoke with earnestness, for he was in truth very fond of Berthier--more so than of any man, unless it were of poor Duroc. Berthier laughed, though not with a very good grace. 'It is new for me to receive my injuries from French hands,' said he. 'And yet it was in the cause of France,' returned the Emperor. Then, turning to us, he took old Tremeau by the ear. 'Ah, old grumbler,' said he, 'you were one of my Egyptian grenadiers, were you not, and had your musket of honour at Marengo. I remember you very well, my good friend. So the old fires are not yet extinguished! They still burn up when you think that your Emperor is wronged. And you, Colonel Despienne, you would not even listen to the tempter. And you, Gerard, your faithful sword is ever to be between me and my enemies. Well, well, I have had some traitors about me, but now at last we are beginning to see who are the true men.' You can fancy, my friends, the thrill of joy which it gave us when the greatest man in the whole world spoke to us in this fashion. Tremeau shook until I thought he would have fallen, and the tears ran down his gigantic moustache. If you had not seen it, you could never believe the influence which the Emperor had upon those coarse-grained, savage old veterans. 'Well, my faithful friends,' said he, 'if you will follow me into this room, I will explain to you the meaning of this little farce which we have been acting. I beg, Berthier, that you will remain in this chamber, and so make sure that no one interrupts us.' It was new for us to be doing business, with a Marshal of France as sentry at the door. However, we followed the Emperor as we were ordered, and he led us into the recess of the window, gathering us around him and sinking his voice as he addressed us. 'I have picked you out of the whole army,' said he, 'as being not only the most formidable but also the most faithful of my soldiers. I was convinced that you were all three men who would never waver in your fidelity to me. If I have ventured to put that fidelity to the proof, and to watch you while attempts were at my orders made upon your honour, it was only because, in the days when I have found the blackest treason amongst my own flesh and blood, it is necessary that I should be doubly circumspect. Suffice it that I am well convinced now that I can rely upon your valour.' 'To the death, sire!' cried Tremeau, and we both repeated it after him. Napoleon drew us all yet a little closer to him, and sank his voice still lower. 'What I say to you now I have said to no one--not to my wife or my brothers; only to you. It is all up with us, my friends. We have come to our last rally. The game is finished, and we must make provision accordingly.' My heart seemed to have changed to a nine-pounder ball as I listened to him. We had hoped against hope, but now when he, the man who was always serene and who always had reserves--when he, in that quiet, impassive voice of his, said that everything was over, we realized that the clouds had shut for ever, and the last gleam gone. Tremeau snarled and gripped at his sabre, Despienne ground his teeth, and for my own part I threw out my chest and clicked my heels to show the Emperor that there were some spirits which could rise to adversity. 'My papers and my fortune must be secured,' whispered the Emperor. 'The whole course of the future may depend upon my having them safe. They are our base for the next attempt--for I am very sure that these poor Bourbons would find that my footstool is too large to make a throne for them. Where am I to keep these precious things? My belongings will be searched--so will the houses of my supporters. They must be secured and concealed by men whom I can trust with that which is more precious to me than my life. Out of the whole of France, you are those whom I have chosen for this sacred trust. 'In the first place, I will tell you what these papers are. You shall not say that I have made you blind agents in the matter. They are the official proof of my divorce from Josephine, of my legal marriage to Marie Louise, and of the birth of my son and heir, the King of Rome. If we cannot prove each of these, the future claim of my family to the throne of France falls to the ground. Then there are securities to the value of forty millions of francs--an immense sum, my friends, but of no more value than this riding-switch when compared to the other papers of which I have spoken. I tell you these things that you may realize the enormous importance of the task which I am committing to your care. Listen, now, while I inform you where you are to get these papers, and what you are to do with them. 'They were handed over to my trusty friend, the Countess Walewski, at Paris, this morning. At five o'clock she starts for Fontainebleau in her blue berline. She should reach here between half-past nine and ten. The papers will be concealed in the berline, in a hiding-place which none know but herself. She has been warned that her carriage will be stopped outside the town by three mounted officers, and she will hand the packet over to your care. You are the younger man, Gerard, but you are of the senior grade. I confide to your care this amethyst ring, which you will show the lady as a token of your mission, and which you will leave with her as a receipt for her papers. 'Having received the packet, you will ride with it into the forest as far as the ruined dove-house--the Colombier. It is possible that I may meet you there--but if it seems to me to be dangerous, I will send my body-servant, Mustapha, whose directions you may take as being mine. There is no roof to the Colombier, and tonight will be a full moon. At the right of the entrance you will find three spades leaning against the wall. With these you will dig a hole three feet deep in the north-eastern corner--that is, in the corner to the left of the door, and nearest to Fontainebleau. Having buried the papers, you will replace the soil with great care, and you will then report to me at the palace.' These were the Emperor's directions, but given with an accuracy and minuteness of detail such as no one but himself could put into an order. When he had finished, he made us swear to keep his secret as long as he lived, and as long as the papers should remain buried. Again and again he made us swear it before he dismissed us from his presence. Colonel Despienne had quarters at the 'Sign of the Pheasant,' and it was there that we supped together. We were all three men who had been trained to take the strangest turns of fortune as part of our daily life and business, yet we were all flushed and moved by the extraordinary interview which we had had, and by the thought of the great adventure which lay before us. For my own part, it had been my fate three several times to take my orders from the lips of the Emperor himself, but neither the incident of the Ajaccio murderers nor the famous ride which I made to Paris appeared to offer such opportunities as this new and most intimate commission. 'If things go right with the Emperor,' said Despienne, 'we shall all live to be marshals yet.' We drank with him to our future cocked hats and our bâtons. It was agreed between us that we should make our way separately to our rendezvous, which was to be the first mile-stone upon the Paris road. In this way we should avoid the gossip which might get about if three men who were so well known were to be seen riding out together. My little Violette had cast a shoe that morning, and the farrier was at work upon her when I returned, so that my comrades were already there when I arrived at the trysting-place. I had taken with me not only my sabre, but also my new pair of English rifled pistols, with a mallet for knocking in the charges. They had cost me a hundred and fifty francs at Trouvel's, in the Rue de Rivoli, but they would carry far further and straighter than the others. It was with one of them that I had saved old Bouvet's life at Leipzig. The night was cloudless, and there was a brilliant moon behind us, so that we always had three black horsemen riding down the white road in front of us. The country is so thickly wooded, however, that we could not see very far. The great palace clock had already struck ten, but there was no sign of the Countess. We began to fear that something might have prevented her from starting. And then suddenly we heard her in the distance. Very faint at first were the birr of wheels and the tat-tat-tat of the horses' feet. Then they grew louder and clearer and louder yet, until a pair of yellow lanterns swung round the curve, and in their light we saw the two big brown horses tearing along the high, blue carriage at the back of them. The postilion pulled them up panting and foaming within a few yards of us. In a moment we were at the window and had raised our hands in a salute to the beautiful pale face which looked out at us. 'We are the three officers of the Emperor, madame,' said I, in a low voice, leaning my face down to the open window. 'You have already been warned that we should wait upon you.' The Countess had a very beautiful, cream-tinted complexion of a sort which I particularly admire, but she grew whiter and whiter as she looked up at me. Harsh lines deepened upon her face until she seemed, even as I looked at her, to turn from youth into age. 'It is evident to me,' she said, 'that you are three impostors.' If she had struck me across the face with her delicate hand she could not have startled me more. It was not her words only, but the bitterness with which she hissed them out. 'Indeed, madame,' said I. 'You do us less than justice. These are the Colonel Despienne and Captain Tremeau. For myself, my name is Brigadier Gerard, and I have only to mention it to assure anyone who has heard of me that----' 'Oh, you villains!' she interrupted. 'You think that because I am only a woman I am very easily to be hoodwinked! You miserable impostors!' I looked at Despienne, who had turned white with anger, and at Tremeau, who was tugging at his moustache. 'Madame,' said I, coldly, 'when the Emperor did us the honour to intrust us with this mission, he gave me this amethyst ring as a token. I had not thought that three honourable gentlemen would have needed such corroboration, but I can only confute your unworthy suspicions by placing it in your hands.' She held it up in the light of the carriage lamp, and the most dreadful expression of grief and of horror contorted her face. 'It is his!' she screamed, and then, 'Oh, my God, what have I done? What have I done?' I felt that something terrible had befallen. 'Quick, madame, quick!' I cried. 'Give us the papers!' 'I have already given them.' 'Given them! To whom?' 'To three officers.' 'When?' 'Within the half-hour.' 'Where are they?' 'God help me, I do not know. They stopped the berline, and I handed them over to them without hesitation, thinking that they had come from the Emperor.' It was a thunder-clap. But those are the moments when I am at my finest. 'You remain here,' said I, to my comrades. 'If three horsemen pass you, stop them at any hazard. The lady will describe them to you. I will be with you presently.' One shake of the bridle, and I was flying into Fontainebleau as only Violette could have carried me. At the palace I flung myself off, rushed up the stairs, brushed aside the lackeys who would have stopped me, and pushed my way into the Emperor's own cabinet. He and Macdonald were busy with pencil and compasses over a chart. He looked up with an angry frown at my sudden entry, but his face changed colour when he saw that it was I. 'You can leave us, Marshal,' said he, and then, the instant the door was closed: 'What news about the papers?' 'They are gone!' said I, and in a few curt words I told him what had happened. His face was calm, but I saw the compasses quiver in his hand. 'You must recover them, Gerard!' he cried. 'The destinies of my dynasty are at stake. Not a moment is to be lost! To horse, sir, to horse!' 'Who are they, sire?' 'I cannot tell. I am surrounded with treason. But they will take them to Paris. To whom should they carry them but to the villain Talleyrand? Yes, yes, they are on the Paris road, and may yet be overtaken. With the three best mounts in my stables and----' I did not wait to hear the end of the sentence. I was already clattering down the stairs. I am sure that five minutes had not passed before I was galloping Violette out of the town with the bridle of one of the Emperor's own Arab chargers in either hand. They wished me to take three, but I should have never dared to look my Violette in the face again. I feel that the spectacle must have been superb when I dashed up to my comrades and pulled the horses on to their haunches in the moonlight. 'No one has passed?' 'No one.' 'Then they are on the Paris road. Quick! Up and after them!' They did not take long, those good soldiers. In a flash they were upon the Emperor's horses, and their own left masterless by the roadside. Then away we went upon our long chase, I in the centre, Despienne upon my right, and Tremeau a little behind, for he was the heavier man. Heavens, how we galloped! The twelve flying hoofs roared and roared along the hard, smooth road. Poplars and moon, black bars and silver streaks, for mile after mile our course lay along the same chequered track, with our shadows in front and our dust behind. We could hear the rasping of bolts and the creaking of shutters from the cottages as we thundered past them, but we were only three dark blurs upon the road by the time that the folk could look after us. It was just striking midnight as we raced into Corbail; but an hostler with a bucket in either hand was throwing his black shadow across the golden fan which was cast from the open door of the inn. 'Three riders!' I gasped. 'Have they passed?' 'I have just been watering their horses,' said he. 'I should think they----' 'On, on, my friends!' and away we flew, striking fire from the cobblestones of the little town. A gendarme tried to stop up, but his voice was drowned by our rattle and clatter. The houses slid past, and we were out on the country road again, with a clear twenty miles between ourselves and Paris. How could they escape us, with the finest horses in France behind them? Not one of the three had turned a hair, but Violette was always a head and shoulders to the front. She was going within herself too, and I knew by the spring of her that I had only to let her stretch herself, and the Emperor's horses would see the colour of her tail. 'There they are!' cried Despienne. 'We have them!' growled Tremeau. 'On, comrades, on!' I shouted, once more. A long stretch of white road lay before us in the moonlight. Far away down it we could see three cavaliers, lying low upon their horses' necks. Every instant they grew larger and clearer as we gained upon them. I could see quite plainly that the two upon either side were wrapped in mantles and rode upon chestnut horses, whilst the man between them was dressed in a chasseur uniform and mounted upon a grey. They were keeping abreast, but it was easy enough to see from the way in which he gathered his legs for each spring that the centre horse was far the fresher of the three. And the rider appeared to be the leader of the party, for we continually saw the glint of his face in the moonshine as he looked back to measure the distance between us. At first it was only a glimmer, then it was cut across with a moustache, and at last when we began to feel their dust in our throats I could give a name to my man. 'Halt, Colonel de Montluc!' I shouted. 'Halt, in the Emperor's name!' I had known him for years as a daring officer and an unprincipled rascal. Indeed, there was a score between us, for he had shot my friend, Treville, at Warsaw, pulling his trigger, as some said, a good second before the drop of the handkerchief. Well, the words were hardly out of my mouth when his two comrades wheeled round and fired their pistols at us. I heard Despienne give a terrible cry, and at the same instant both Tremeau and I let drive at the same man. He fell forward with his hands swinging on each side of his horse's neck. His comrade spurred on to Tremeau, sabre in hand, and I heard the crash which comes when a strong cut is met by a stronger parry. For my own part I never turned my head, but I touched Violette with the spur for the first time and flew after the leader. That he should leave his comrades and fly was proof enough that I should leave mine and follow. He had gained a couple of hundred paces, but the good little mare set that right before we could have passed two milestones. It was in vain that he spurred and thrashed like a gunner driver on a soft road. His hat flew off with his exertions, and his bald head gleamed in the moonshine. But do what he might, he still heard the rattle of the hoofs growing louder and louder behind him. I could not have been twenty yards from him, and the shadow head was touching the shadow haunch, when he turned with a curse in his saddle and emptied both his pistols, one after the other, into Violette. I have been wounded myself so often that I have to stop and think before I can tell you the exact number of times. I have been hit by musket balls, by pistol bullets, and by bursting shells, besides being pierced by bayonet, lance, sabre, and finally by a brad-awl, which was the most painful of any. Yet out of all these injuries I have never known the same deadly sickness as came over me when I felt the poor, silent, patient creature, which I had come to love more than anything in the world except my mother and the Emperor, reel and stagger beneath me. I pulled my second pistol from my holster and fired point-blank between the fellow's broad shoulders. He slashed his horse across the flank with his whip, and for a moment I thought that I had missed him. But then on the green of his chasseur jacket I saw an ever-widening black smudge, and he began to sway in his saddle, very slightly at first, but more and more with every bound, until at last over he went, with his foot caught in the stirrup, and his shoulders thud-thud-thudding along the road, until the drag was too much for the tired horse, and I closed my hand upon the foam-spattered bridle-chain. As I pulled him up it eased the stirrup leather, and the spurred heel clinked loudly as it fell. 'Your papers!' I cried, springing from my saddle. 'This instant!' But even as I said, it, the huddle of the green body and the fantastic sprawl of the limbs in the moonlight told me clearly enough that it was all over with him. My bullet had passed through his heart, and it was only his own iron will which had held him so long in the saddle. He had lived hard, this Montluc, and I will do him justice to say that he died hard also. But it was the papers--always the papers--of which I thought. I opened his tunic and I felt in his shirt. Then I searched his holsters and his sabre-tasche. Finally I dragged off his boots, and undid his horse's girth so as to hunt under the saddle. There was not a nook or crevice which I did not ransack. It was useless. They were not upon him. When this stunning blow came upon me I could have sat down by the roadside and wept. Fate seemed to be fighting against me, and that is an enemy from whom even a gallant hussar might not be ashamed to flinch. I stood with my arm over the neck of my poor wounded Violette, and I tried to think it all out, that I might act in the wisest way. I was aware that the Emperor had no great respect for my wits, and I longed to show him that he had done me an injustice. Montluc had not the papers. And yet Montluc had sacrificed his companions in order to make his escape. I could make nothing of that. On the other hand, it was clear that, if he had not got them, one or other of his comrades had. One of them was certainly dead. The other I had left fighting with Tremeau, and if he escaped from the old swordsman he had still to pass me. Clearly, my work lay behind me. I hammered fresh charges into my pistols after I had turned this over in my head. Then I put them back in the holsters, and I examined my little mare, she jerking her head and cocking her ears the while, as if to tell me that an old soldier like herself did not make a fuss about a scratch or two. The first shot had merely grazed her off-shoulder, leaving a skin-mark, as if she had brushed a wall. The second was more serious. It had passed through the muscle of her neck, but already it had ceased to bleed. I reflected that if she weakened I could mount Montluc's grey, and meanwhile I led him along beside us, for he was a fine horse, worth fifteen hundred francs at the least, and it seemed to me that no one had a better right to him than I. Well, I was all impatience now to get back to the others, and I had just given Violette her head, when suddenly I saw something glimmering in a field by the roadside. It was the brass-work upon the chasseur hat which had flown from Montluc's head; and at the sight of it a thought made me jump in the saddle. How could the hat have flown off? With its weight, would it not have simply dropped? And here it lay, fifteen paces from the roadway! Of course, he must have thrown it off when he had made sure that I would overtake him. And if he threw it off--I did not stop to reason any more, but sprang from the mare with my heart beating the _pas-de-charge_. Yes, it was all right this time. There, in the crown of the hat was stuffed a roll of papers in a parchment wrapper bound round with yellow ribbon. I pulled it out with the one hand and, holding the hat in the other, I danced for joy in the moonlight. The Emperor would see that he had not made a mistake when he put his affairs into the charge of Etienne Gerard. I had a safe pocket on the inside of my tunic just over my heart, where I kept a few little things which were dear to me, and into this I thrust my precious roll. Then I sprang upon Violette, and was pushing forward to see what had become of Tremeau, when I saw a horseman riding across the field in the distance. At the same instant I heard the sound of hoofs approaching me, and there in the moonlight was the Emperor upon his white charger, dressed in his grey overcoat and his three-cornered hat, just as I had seen him so often upon the field of battle. 'Well!' he cried, in the sharp, sergeant-major way of his. 'Where are my papers?' I spurred forward and presented them without a word. He broke the ribbon and ran his eyes rapidly over them. Then, as we sat our horses head to tail, he threw his left arm across me with his hand upon my shoulder. Yes, my friends, simple as you see me, I have been embraced by my great master. 'Gerard,' he cried, 'you are a marvel!' I did not wish to contradict him, and it brought a flush of joy upon my cheeks to know that he had done me justice at last. 'Where is the thief, Gerard?' he asked. 'Dead, sire.' 'You killed him?' 'He wounded my horse, sire, and would have escaped had I not shot him.' 'Did you recognize him?' 'De Montluc is his name, sire--a Colonel of Chasseurs.' 'Tut,' said the Emperor. 'We have got the poor pawn, but the hand which plays the game is still out of our reach.' He sat in silent thought for a little, with his chin sunk upon his chest. 'Ah, Talleyrand, Talleyrand,' I heard him mutter, 'if I had been in your place and you in mine, you would have crushed a viper when you held it under your heel. For five years I have known you for what you are, and yet I have let you live to sting me. Never mind, my brave,' he continued, turning to me, 'there will come a day of reckoning for everybody, and when it arrives, I promise you that my friends will be remembered as well as my enemies.' 'Sire,' said I, for I had had time for thought as well as he, 'if your plans about these papers have been carried to the ears of your enemies, I trust you do not think that it was owing to any indiscretion upon the part of myself or of my comrades.' 'It would be hardly reasonable for me to do so,' he answered, 'seeing that this plot was hatched in Paris, and that you only had your orders a few hours ago.' 'Then how----?' 'Enough,' he cried, sternly. 'You take an undue advantage of your position.' That was always the way with the Emperor. He would chat with you as with a friend and a brother, and then when he had wiled you into forgetting the gulf which lay between you, he would suddenly, with a word or with a look, remind you that it was as impassable as ever. When I have fondled my old hound until he has been encouraged to paw my knees, and I have then thrust him down again, it has made me think of the Emperor and his ways. He reined his horse round, and I followed him in silence and with a heavy heart. But when he spoke again his words were enough to drive all thought of myself out of my mind. 'I could not sleep until I knew how you had fared,' said he. 'I have paid a price for my papers. There are not so many of my old soldiers left that I can afford to lose two in one night.' When he said 'two' it turned me cold. 'Colonel Despienne was shot, sire,' I stammered. 'And Captain Tremeau cut down. Had I been a few minutes earlier, I might have saved him. The other escaped across the fields.' I remembered that I had seen a horseman a moment before I had met the Emperor. He had taken to the fields to avoid me, but if I had known, and Violette been unwounded, the old soldier would not have gone unavenged. I was thinking sadly of his sword-play, and wondering whether it was his stiffening wrist which had been fatal to him, when Napoleon spoke again. 'Yes, Brigadier,' said he, 'you are now the only man who will know where these papers are concealed.' It must have been imagination, my friends, but for an instant I may confess that it seemed to me that there was a tone in the Emperor's voice which was not altogether one of sorrow. But the dark thought had hardly time to form itself in my mind before he let me see that I was doing him an injustice. 'Yes, I have paid a price for my papers,' he said, and I heard them crackle as he put his hand up to his bosom. 'No man has ever had more faithful servants--no man since the beginning of the world.' As he spoke we came upon the scene of the struggle. Colonel Despienne and the man whom we had shot lay together some distance down the road, while their horses grazed contentedly beneath the poplars. Captain Tremeau lay in front of us upon his back, with his arms and legs stretched out, and his sabre broken short off in his hand. His tunic was open, and a huge blood-clot hung like a dark handkerchief out of a slit in his white shirt. I could see the gleam of his clenched teeth from under his immense moustache. The Emperor sprang from his horse and bent down over the dead man. 'He was with me since Rivoli,' said he, sadly. 'He was one of my old grumblers in Egypt.' And the voice brought the man back from the dead. I saw his eyelids shiver. He twitched his arm, and moved the sword-hilt a few inches. He was trying to raise it in salute. Then the mouth opened, and the hilt tinkled down on to the ground. 'May we all die as gallantly,' said the Emperor, as he rose, and from my heart I added 'Amen.' There was a farm within fifty yards of where we were standing, and the farmer, roused from his sleep by the clatter of hoofs and the cracking of pistols, had rushed out to the roadside. We saw him now, dumb with fear and astonishment, staring open-eyed at the Emperor. It was to him that we committed the care of the four dead men and of the horses also. For my own part, I thought it best to leave Violette with him and to take De Montluc's grey with me, for he could not refuse to give me back my own mare, whilst there might be difficulties about the other. Besides, my little friend's wound had to be considered, and we had a long return ride before us. The Emperor did not at first talk much upon the way. Perhaps the deaths of Despienne and Tremeau still weighed heavily upon his spirits. He was always a reserved man, and in those times, when every hour brought him the news of some success of his enemies or defection of his friends, one could not expect him to be a merry companion. Nevertheless, when I reflected that he was carrying in his bosom those papers which he valued so highly, and which only a few hours ago appeared to be for ever lost, and when I further thought that it was I, Etienne Gerard, who had placed them there, I felt that I had deserved some little consideration. The same idea may have occurred to him, for when we had at last left the Paris high road, and had entered the forest, he began of his own accord to tell me that which I should have most liked to have asked him. 'As to the papers,' said he, 'I have already told you that there is no one now, except you and me, who knows where they are to be concealed. My Mameluke carried the spades to the pigeon-house, but I have told him nothing. Our plans, however, for bringing the packet from Paris have been formed since Monday. There were three in the secret, a woman and two men. The woman I would trust with my life; which of the two men has betrayed us I do not know, but I think that I may promise to find out.' We were riding in the shadow of the trees at the time, and I could hear him slapping his riding-whip against his boot, and taking pinch after pinch of snuff, as was his way when he was excited. 'You wonder, no doubt,' said he, after a pause, 'why these rascals did not stop the carriage at Paris instead of at the entrance to Fontainebleau.' In truth, the objection had not occurred to me, but I did not wish to appear to have less wits than he gave me credit for, so I answered that it was indeed surprising. 'Had they done so they would have made a public scandal, and run a chance of missing their end. Short of taking the berline to pieces, they could not have discovered the hiding-place. He planned it well--he could always plan well--and he chose his agents well also. But mine were the better.' It is not for me to repeat to you, my friends, all that was said to me by the Emperor as we walked our horses amid the black shadows and through the moon-silvered glades of the great forest. Every word of it is impressed upon my memory, and before I pass away it is likely that I will place it all upon paper, so that others may read it in the days to come. He spoke freely of his past, and something also of his future; of the devotion of Macdonald, of the treason of Marmont, of the little King of Rome, concerning whom he talked with as much tenderness as any bourgeois father of a single child; and, finally, of his father-in-law, the Emperor of Austria, who would, he thought, stand between his enemies and himself. For myself, I dared not say a word, remembering how I had already brought a rebuke upon myself; but I rode by his side, hardly able to believe that this was indeed the great Emperor, the man whose glance sent a thrill through me, who was now pouring out his thoughts to me in short, eager sentences, the words rattling and racing like the hoofs of a galloping squadron. It is possible that, after the word-splittings and diplomacy of a Court, it was a relief to him to speak his mind to a plain soldier like myself. In this way the Emperor and I--even after years it sends a flush of pride into my cheeks to be able to put those words together--the Emperor and I walked our horses through the Forest of Fontainebleau, until we came at last to the Colombier. The three spades were propped against the wall upon the right-hand side of the ruined door, and at the sight of them the tears sprang to my eyes as I thought of the hands for which they were intended. The Emperor seized one and I another. 'Quick!' said he. 'The dawn will be upon us before we get back to the palace.' We dug the hole, and placing the papers in one of my pistol holsters to screen them from the damp, we laid them at the bottom and covered them up. We then carefully removed all marks of the ground having been disturbed, and we placed a large stone upon the top. I dare say that since the Emperor was a young gunner, and helped to train his pieces against Toulon, he had not worked so hard with his hands. He was mopping his forehead with his silk handkerchief long before we had come to the end of our task. The first grey cold light of morning was stealing through the tree trunks when we came out together from the old pigeon-house. The Emperor laid his hand upon my shoulder as I stood ready to help him to mount. 'We have left the papers there,' said he, solemnly, 'and I desire that you shall leave all thought of them there also. Let the recollection of them pass entirely from your mind, to be revived only when you receive a direct order under my own hand and seal. From this time onwards you forget all that has passed.' 'I forget it, sire,' said I. We rode together to the edge of the town, where he desired that I should separate from him. I had saluted, and was turning my horse, when he called me back. 'It is easy to mistake the points of the compass in the forest,' said he. 'Would you not say that it was in the north-eastern corner that we buried them?' 'Buried what, sire?' 'The papers, of course,' he cried, impatiently. 'What papers, sire?' 'Name of a name! Why, the papers that you have recovered for me.' 'I am really at a loss to know what your Majesty is talking about.' He flushed with anger for a moment, and then he burst out laughing. 'Very good, Brigadier!' he cried. 'I begin to believe that you are as good a diplomatist as you are a soldier, and I cannot say more than that.' * * * * * So that was my strange adventure in which I found myself the friend and confident agent of the Emperor. When he returned from Elba he refrained from digging up the papers until his position should be secure, and they still remained in the corner of the old pigeon-house after his exile to St Helena. It was at this time that he was desirous of getting them into the hands of his own supporters, and for that purpose he wrote me, as I afterwards learned, three letters, all of which were intercepted by his guardians. Finally, he offered to support himself and his own establishment--which he might very easily have done out of the gigantic sum which belonged to him--if they would only pass one of his letters unopened. This request was refused, and so, up to his death in '21, the papers still remained where I have told you. How they came to be dug up by Count Bertrand and myself, and who eventually obtained them, is a story which I would tell you, were it not that the end has not yet come. Some day you will hear of those papers, and you will see how, after he has been so long in his grave, that great man can still set Europe shaking. When that day comes, you will think of Etienne Gerard, and you will tell your children that you have heard the story from the lips of the man who was the only one living of all who took part in that strange history--the man who was tempted by Marshal Berthier, who led that wild pursuit upon the Paris road, who was honoured by the embrace of the Emperor, and who rode with him by moonlight in the Forest of Fontainebleau. The buds are bursting and the birds are calling, my friends. You may find better things to do in the sunlight than listening to the stories of an old, broken soldier. And yet you may well treasure what I say, for the buds will have burst and the birds sung in many seasons before France will see such another ruler as he whose servants we were proud to be. 
1202	----	TALES OF UNREST By Joseph Conrad �Be it thy course to being giddy minds With foreign quarrels.� --SHAKESPEARE TO ADOLF P. KRIEGER FOR THE SAKE OF OLD DAYS CONTENTS KARAIN: A MEMORY THE IDIOTS AN OUTPOST OF PROGRESS THE RETURN THE LAGOON AUTHOR�S NOTE Of the five stories in this volume, �The Lagoon,� the last in order, is the earliest in date. It is the first short story I ever wrote and marks, in a manner of speaking, the end of my first phase, the Malayan phase with its special subject and its verbal suggestions. Conceived in the same mood which produced �Almayer�s Folly� and �An Outcast of the Islands,� it is told in the same breath (with what was left of it, that is, after the end of �An Outcast�), seen with the same vision, rendered in the same method--if such a thing as method did exist then in my conscious relation to this new adventure of writing for print. I doubt it very much. One does one�s work first and theorises about it afterwards. It is a very amusing and egotistical occupation of no use whatever to any one and just as likely as not to lead to false conclusions. Anybody can see that between the last paragraph of �An Outcast� and the first of �The Lagoon� there has been no change of pen, figuratively speaking. It happened also to be literally true. It was the same pen: a common steel pen. Having been charged with a certain lack of emotional faculty I am glad to be able to say that on one occasion at least I did give way to a sentimental impulse. I thought the pen had been a good pen and that it had done enough for me, and so, with the idea of keeping it for a sort of memento on which I could look later with tender eyes, I put it into my waistcoat pocket. Afterwards it used to turn up in all sorts of places--at the bottom of small drawers, among my studs in cardboard boxes--till at last it found permanent rest in a large wooden bowl containing some loose keys, bits of sealing wax, bits of string, small broken chains, a few buttons, and similar minute wreckage that washes out of a man�s life into such receptacles. I would catch sight of it from time to time with a distinct feeling of satisfaction till, one day, I perceived with horror that there were two old pens in there. How the other pen found its way into the bowl instead of the fireplace or wastepaper basket I can�t imagine, but there the two were, lying side by side, both encrusted with ink and completely undistinguishable from each other. It was very distressing, but being determined not to share my sentiment between two pens or run the risk of sentimentalising over a mere stranger, I threw them both out of the window into a flower bed--which strikes me now as a poetical grave for the remnants of one�s past. But the tale remained. It was first fixed in print in the �Cornhill Magazine�, being my first appearance in a serial of any kind; and I have lived long enough to see it guyed most agreeably by Mr. Max Beerbohm in a volume of parodies entitled �A Christmas Garland,� where I found myself in very good company. I was immensely gratified. I began to believe in my public existence. I have much to thank �The Lagoon� for. My next effort in short-story writing was a departure--I mean a departure from the Malay Archipelago. Without premeditation, without sorrow, without rejoicing, and almost without noticing it, I stepped into the very different atmosphere of �An Outpost of Progress.� I found there a different moral attitude. I seemed able to capture new reactions, new suggestions, and even new rhythms for my paragraphs. For a moment I fancied myself a new man--a most exciting illusion. It clung to me for some time, monstrous, half conviction and half hope as to its body, with an iridescent tail of dreams and with a changeable head like a plastic mask. It was only later that I perceived that in common with the rest of men nothing could deliver me from my fatal consistency. We cannot escape from ourselves. �An Outpost of Progress� is the lightest part of the loot I carried off from Central Africa, the main portion being of course �The Heart of Darkness.� Other men have found a lot of quite different things there and I have the comfortable conviction that what I took would not have been of much use to anybody else. And it must be said that it was but a very small amount of plunder. All of it could go into one�s breast pocket when folded neatly. As for the story itself it is true enough in its essentials. The sustained invention of a really telling lie demands a talent which I do not possess. �The Idiots� is such an obviously derivative piece of work that it is impossible for me to say anything about it here. The suggestion of it was not mental but visual: the actual idiots. It was after an interval of long groping amongst vague impulses and hesitations which ended in the production of �The Nigger� that I turned to my third short story in the order of time, the first in this volume: �Karain: A Memory.� Reading it after many years �Karain� produced on me the effect of something seen through a pair of glasses from a rather advantageous position. In that story I had not gone back to the Archipelago, I had only turned for another look at it. I admit that I was absorbed by the distant view, so absorbed that I didn�t notice then that the motif of the story is almost identical with the motif of �The Lagoon.� However, the idea at the back is very different; but the story is mainly made memorable to me by the fact that it was my first contribution to �Blackwood�s Magazine� and that it led to my personal acquaintance with Mr. William Blackwood whose guarded appreciation I felt nevertheless to be genuine, and prized accordingly. �Karain� was begun on a sudden impulse only three days after I wrote the last line of �The Nigger,� and the recollection of its difficulties is mixed up with the worries of the unfinished �Return,� the last pages of which I took up again at the time; the only instance in my life when I made an attempt to write with both hands at once as it were. Indeed my innermost feeling, now, is that �The Return� is a left-handed production. Looking through that story lately I had the material impression of sitting under a large and expensive umbrella in the loud drumming of a heavy rain-shower. It was very distracting. In the general uproar one could hear every individual drop strike on the stout and distended silk. Mentally, the reading rendered me dumb for the remainder of the day, not exactly with astonishment but with a sort of dismal wonder. I don�t want to talk disrespectfully of any pages of mine. Psychologically there were no doubt good reasons for my attempt; and it was worth while, if only to see of what excesses I was capable in that sort of virtuosity. In this connection I should like to confess my surprise on finding that notwithstanding all its apparatus of analysis the story consists for the most part of physical impressions; impressions of sound and sight, railway station, streets, a trotting horse, reflections in mirrors and so on, rendered as if for their own sake and combined with a sublimated description of a desirable middle-class town-residence which somehow manages to produce a sinister effect. For the rest any kind word about �The Return� (and there have been such words said at different times) awakens in me the liveliest gratitude, for I know how much the writing of that fantasy has cost me in sheer toil, in temper, and in disillusion. J. C. TALES OF UNREST KARAIN, A MEMORY I We knew him in those unprotected days when we were content to hold in our hands our lives and our property. None of us, I believe, has any property now, and I hear that many, negligently, have lost their lives; but I am sure that the few who survive are not yet so dim-eyed as to miss in the befogged respectability of their newspapers the intelligence of various native risings in the Eastern Archipelago. Sunshine gleams between the lines of those short paragraphs--sunshine and the glitter of the sea. A strange name wakes up memories; the printed words scent the smoky atmosphere of to-day faintly, with the subtle and penetrating perfume as of land breezes breathing through the starlight of bygone nights; a signal fire gleams like a jewel on the high brow of a sombre cliff; great trees, the advanced sentries of immense forests, stand watchful and still over sleeping stretches of open water; a line of white surf thunders on an empty beach, the shallow water foams on the reefs; and green islets scattered through the calm of noonday lie upon the level of a polished sea, like a handful of emeralds on a buckler of steel. There are faces too--faces dark, truculent, and smiling; the frank audacious faces of men barefooted, well armed and noiseless. They thronged the narrow length of our schooner�s decks with their ornamented and barbarous crowd, with the variegated colours of checkered sarongs, red turbans, white jackets, embroideries; with the gleam of scabbards, gold rings, charms, armlets, lance blades, and jewelled handles of their weapons. They had an independent bearing, resolute eyes, a restrained manner; and we seem yet to hear their soft voices speaking of battles, travels, and escapes; boasting with composure, joking quietly; sometimes in well-bred murmurs extolling their own valour, our generosity; or celebrating with loyal enthusiasm the virtues of their ruler. We remember the faces, the eyes, the voices, we see again the gleam of silk and metal; the murmuring stir of that crowd, brilliant, festive, and martial; and we seem to feel the touch of friendly brown hands that, after one short grasp, return to rest on a chased hilt. They were Karain�s people--a devoted following. Their movements hung on his lips; they read their thoughts in his eyes; he murmured to them nonchalantly of life and death, and they accepted his words humbly, like gifts of fate. They were all free men, and when speaking to him said, �Your slave.� On his passage voices died out as though he had walked guarded by silence; awed whispers followed him. They called him their war-chief. He was the ruler of three villages on a narrow plain; the master of an insignificant foothold on the earth--of a conquered foothold that, shaped like a young moon, lay ignored between the hills and the sea. From the deck of our schooner, anchored in the middle of the bay, he indicated by a theatrical sweep of his arm along the jagged outline of the hills the whole of his domain; and the ample movement seemed to drive back its limits, augmenting it suddenly into something so immense and vague that for a moment it appeared to be bounded only by the sky. And really, looking at that place, landlocked from the sea and shut off from the land by the precipitous slopes of mountains, it was difficult to believe in the existence of any neighbourhood. It was still, complete, unknown, and full of a life that went on stealthily with a troubling effect of solitude; of a life that seemed unaccountably empty of anything that would stir the thought, touch the heart, give a hint of the ominous sequence of days. It appeared to us a land without memories, regrets, and hopes; a land where nothing could survive the coming of the night, and where each sunrise, like a dazzling act of special creation, was disconnected from the eve and the morrow. Karain swept his hand over it. �All mine!� He struck the deck with his long staff; the gold head flashed like a falling star; very close behind him a silent old fellow in a richly embroidered black jacket alone of all the Malays around did not follow the masterful gesture with a look. He did not even lift his eyelids. He bowed his head behind his master, and without stirring held hilt up over his right shoulder a long blade in a silver scabbard. He was there on duty, but without curiosity, and seemed weary, not with age, but with the possession of a burdensome secret of existence. Karain, heavy and proud, had a lofty pose and breathed calmly. It was our first visit, and we looked about curiously. The bay was like a bottomless pit of intense light. The circular sheet of water reflected a luminous sky, and the shores enclosing it made an opaque ring of earth floating in an emptiness of transparent blue. The hills, purple and arid, stood out heavily on the sky: their summits seemed to fade into a coloured tremble as of ascending vapour; their steep sides were streaked with the green of narrow ravines; at their foot lay rice-fields, plantain-patches, yellow sands. A torrent wound about like a dropped thread. Clumps of fruit-trees marked the villages; slim palms put their nodding heads together above the low houses; dried palm-leaf roofs shone afar, like roofs of gold, behind the dark colonnades of tree-trunks; figures passed vivid and vanishing; the smoke of fires stood upright above the masses of flowering bushes; bamboo fences glittered, running away in broken lines between the fields. A sudden cry on the shore sounded plaintive in the distance, and ceased abruptly, as if stifled in the downpour of sunshine. A puff of breeze made a flash of darkness on the smooth water, touched our faces, and became forgotten. Nothing moved. The sun blazed down into a shadowless hollow of colours and stillness. It was the stage where, dressed splendidly for his part, he strutted, incomparably dignified, made important by the power he had to awaken an absurd expectation of something heroic going to take place--a burst of action or song--upon the vibrating tone of a wonderful sunshine. He was ornate and disturbing, for one could not imagine what depth of horrible void such an elaborate front could be worthy to hide. He was not masked--there was too much life in him, and a mask is only a lifeless thing; but he presented himself essentially as an actor, as a human being aggressively disguised. His smallest acts were prepared and unexpected, his speeches grave, his sentences ominous like hints and complicated like arabesques. He was treated with a solemn respect accorded in the irreverent West only to the monarchs of the stage, and he accepted the profound homage with a sustained dignity seen nowhere else but behind the footlights and in the condensed falseness of some grossly tragic situation. It was almost impossible to remember who he was--only a petty chief of a conveniently isolated corner of Mindanao, where we could in comparative safety break the law against the traffic in firearms and ammunition with the natives. What would happen should one of the moribund Spanish gun-boats be suddenly galvanized into a flicker of active life did not trouble us, once we were inside the bay--so completely did it appear out of the reach of a meddling world; and besides, in those days we were imaginative enough to look with a kind of joyous equanimity on any chance there was of being quietly hanged somewhere out of the way of diplomatic remonstrance. As to Karain, nothing could happen to him unless what happens to all--failure and death; but his quality was to appear clothed in the illusion of unavoidable success. He seemed too effective, too necessary there, too much of an essential condition for the existence of his land and his people, to be destroyed by anything short of an earthquake. He summed up his race, his country, the elemental force of ardent life, of tropical nature. He had its luxuriant strength, its fascination; and, like it, he carried the seed of peril within. In many successive visits we came to know his stage well--the purple semicircle of hills, the slim trees leaning over houses, the yellow sands, the streaming green of ravines. All that had the crude and blended colouring, the appropriateness almost excessive, the suspicious immobility of a painted scene; and it enclosed so perfectly the accomplished acting of his amazing pretences that the rest of the world seemed shut out forever from the gorgeous spectacle. There could be nothing outside. It was as if the earth had gone on spinning, and had left that crumb of its surface alone in space. He appeared utterly cut off from everything but the sunshine, and that even seemed to be made for him alone. Once when asked what was on the other side of the hills, he said, with a meaning smile, �Friends and enemies--many enemies; else why should I buy your rifles and powder?� He was always like this--word-perfect in his part, playing up faithfully to the mysteries and certitudes of his surroundings. �Friends and enemies�--nothing else. It was impalpable and vast. The earth had indeed rolled away from under his land, and he, with his handful of people, stood surrounded by a silent tumult as of contending shades. Certainly no sound came from outside. �Friends and enemies!� He might have added, �and memories,� at least as far as he himself was concerned; but he neglected to make that point then. It made itself later on, though; but it was after the daily performance--in the wings, so to speak, and with the lights out. Meantime he filled the stage with barbarous dignity. Some ten years ago he had led his people--a scratch lot of wandering Bugis--to the conquest of the bay, and now in his august care they had forgotten all the past, and had lost all concern for the future. He gave them wisdom, advice, reward, punishment, life or death, with the same serenity of attitude and voice. He understood irrigation and the art of war--the qualities of weapons and the craft of boat-building. He could conceal his heart; had more endurance; he could swim longer, and steer a canoe better than any of his people; he could shoot straighter, and negotiate more tortuously than any man of his race I knew. He was an adventurer of the sea, an outcast, a ruler--and my very good friend. I wish him a quick death in a stand-up fight, a death in sunshine; for he had known remorse and power, and no man can demand more from life. Day after day he appeared before us, incomparably faithful to the illusions of the stage, and at sunset the night descended upon him quickly, like a falling curtain. The seamed hills became black shadows towering high upon a clear sky; above them the glittering confusion of stars resembled a mad turmoil stilled by a gesture; sounds ceased, men slept, forms vanished--and the reality of the universe alone remained--a marvellous thing of darkness and glimmers. II But it was at night that he talked openly, forgetting the exactions of his stage. In the daytime there were affairs to be discussed in state. There were at first between him and me his own splendour, my shabby suspicions, and the scenic landscape that intruded upon the reality of our lives by its motionless fantasy of outline and colour. His followers thronged round him; above his head the broad blades of their spears made a spiked halo of iron points, and they hedged him from humanity by the shimmer of silks, the gleam of weapons, the excited and respectful hum of eager voices. Before sunset he would take leave with ceremony, and go off sitting under a red umbrella, and escorted by a score of boats. All the paddles flashed and struck together with a mighty splash that reverberated loudly in the monumental amphitheatre of hills. A broad stream of dazzling foam trailed behind the flotilla. The canoes appeared very black on the white hiss of water; turbaned heads swayed back and forth; a multitude of arms in crimson and yellow rose and fell with one movement; the spearmen upright in the bows of canoes had variegated sarongs and gleaming shoulders like bronze statues; the muttered strophes of the paddlers� song ended periodically in a plaintive shout. They diminished in the distance; the song ceased; they swarmed on the beach in the long shadows of the western hills. The sunlight lingered on the purple crests, and we could see him leading the way to his stockade, a burly bareheaded figure walking far in advance of a straggling cortege, and swinging regularly an ebony staff taller than himself. The darkness deepened fast; torches gleamed fitfully, passing behind bushes; a long hail or two trailed in the silence of the evening; and at last the night stretched its smooth veil over the shore, the lights, and the voices. Then, just as we were thinking of repose, the watchmen of the schooner would hail a splash of paddles away in the starlit gloom of the bay; a voice would respond in cautious tones, and our serang, putting his head down the open skylight, would inform us without surprise, �That Rajah, he coming. He here now.� Karain appeared noiselessly in the doorway of the little cabin. He was simplicity itself then; all in white; muffled about his head; for arms only a kriss with a plain buffalo-horn handle, which he would politely conceal within a fold of his sarong before stepping over the threshold. The old sword-bearer�s face, the worn-out and mournful face so covered with wrinkles that it seemed to look out through the meshes of a fine dark net, could be seen close above his shoulders. Karain never moved without that attendant, who stood or squatted close at his back. He had a dislike of an open space behind him. It was more than a dislike--it resembled fear, a nervous preoccupation of what went on where he could not see. This, in view of the evident and fierce loyalty that surrounded him, was inexplicable. He was there alone in the midst of devoted men; he was safe from neighbourly ambushes, from fraternal ambitions; and yet more than one of our visitors had assured us that their ruler could not bear to be alone. They said, �Even when he eats and sleeps there is always one on the watch near him who has strength and weapons.� There was indeed always one near him, though our informants had no conception of that watcher�s strength and weapons, which were both shadowy and terrible. We knew, but only later on, when we had heard the story. Meantime we noticed that, even during the most important interviews, Karain would often give a start, and interrupting his discourse, would sweep his arm back with a sudden movement, to feel whether the old fellow was there. The old fellow, impenetrable and weary, was always there. He shared his food, his repose, and his thoughts; he knew his plans, guarded his secrets; and, impassive behind his master�s agitation, without stirring the least bit, murmured above his head in a soothing tone some words difficult to catch. It was only on board the schooner, when surrounded by white faces, by unfamiliar sights and sounds, that Karain seemed to forget the strange obsession that wound like a black thread through the gorgeous pomp of his public life. At night we treated him in a free and easy manner, which just stopped short of slapping him on the back, for there are liberties one must not take with a Malay. He said himself that on such occasions he was only a private gentleman coming to see other gentlemen whom he supposed as well born as himself. I fancy that to the last he believed us to be emissaries of Government, darkly official persons furthering by our illegal traffic some dark scheme of high statecraft. Our denials and protestations were unavailing. He only smiled with discreet politeness and inquired about the Queen. Every visit began with that inquiry; he was insatiable of details; he was fascinated by the holder of a sceptre the shadow of which, stretching from the westward over the earth and over the seas, passed far beyond his own hand�s-breadth of conquered land. He multiplied questions; he could never know enough of the Monarch of whom he spoke with wonder and chivalrous respect--with a kind of affectionate awe! Afterwards, when we had learned that he was the son of a woman who had many years ago ruled a small Bugis state, we came to suspect that the memory of his mother (of whom he spoke with enthusiasm) mingled somehow in his mind with the image he tried to form for himself of the far-off Queen whom he called Great, Invincible, Pious, and Fortunate. We had to invent details at last to satisfy his craving curiosity; and our loyalty must be pardoned, for we tried to make them fit for his august and resplendent ideal. We talked. The night slipped over us, over the still schooner, over the sleeping land, and over the sleepless sea that thundered amongst the reefs outside the bay. His paddlers, two trustworthy men, slept in the canoe at the foot of our side-ladder. The old confidant, relieved from duty, dozed on his heels, with his back against the companion-doorway; and Karain sat squarely in the ship�s wooden armchair, under the slight sway of the cabin lamp, a cheroot between his dark fingers, and a glass of lemonade before him. He was amused by the fizz of the thing, but after a sip or two would let it get flat, and with a courteous wave of his hand ask for a fresh bottle. He decimated our slender stock; but we did not begrudge it to him, for, when he began, he talked well. He must have been a great Bugis dandy in his time, for even then (and when we knew him he was no longer young) his splendour was spotlessly neat, and he dyed his hair a light shade of brown. The quiet dignity of his bearing transformed the dim-lit cuddy of the schooner into an audience-hall. He talked of inter-island politics with an ironic and melancholy shrewdness. He had travelled much, suffered not a little, intrigued, fought. He knew native Courts, European Settlements, the forests, the sea, and, as he said himself, had spoken in his time to many great men. He liked to talk with me because I had known some of these men: he seemed to think that I could understand him, and, with a fine confidence, assumed that I, at least, could appreciate how much greater he was himself. But he preferred to talk of his native country--a small Bugis state on the island of Celebes. I had visited it some time before, and he asked eagerly for news. As men�s names came up in conversation he would say, �We swam against one another when we were boys�; or, �We hunted the deer together--he could use the noose and the spear as well as I.� Now and then his big dreamy eyes would roll restlessly; he frowned or smiled, or he would become pensive, and, staring in silence, would nod slightly for a time at some regretted vision of the past. His mother had been the ruler of a small semi-independent state on the sea-coast at the head of the Gulf of Boni. He spoke of her with pride. She had been a woman resolute in affairs of state and of her own heart. After the death of her first husband, undismayed by the turbulent opposition of the chiefs, she married a rich trader, a Korinchi man of no family. Karain was her son by that second marriage, but his unfortunate descent had apparently nothing to do with his exile. He said nothing as to its cause, though once he let slip with a sigh, �Ha! my land will not feel any more the weight of my body.� But he related willingly the story of his wanderings, and told us all about the conquest of the bay. Alluding to the people beyond the hills, he would murmur gently, with a careless wave of the hand, �They came over the hills once to fight us, but those who got away never came again.� He thought for a while, smiling to himself. �Very few got away,� he added, with proud serenity. He cherished the recollections of his successes; he had an exulting eagerness for endeavour; when he talked, his aspect was warlike, chivalrous, and uplifting. No wonder his people admired him. We saw him once walking in daylight amongst the houses of the settlement. At the doors of huts groups of women turned to look after him, warbling softly, and with gleaming eyes; armed men stood out of the way, submissive and erect; others approached from the side, bending their backs to address him humbly; an old woman stretched out a draped lean arm--�Blessings on thy head!� she cried from a dark doorway; a fiery-eyed man showed above the low fence of a plantain-patch a streaming face, a bare breast scarred in two places, and bellowed out pantingly after him, �God give victory to our master!� Karain walked fast, and with firm long strides; he answered greetings right and left by quick piercing glances. Children ran forward between the houses, peeped fearfully round corners; young boys kept up with him, gliding between bushes: their eyes gleamed through the dark leaves. The old sword-bearer, shouldering the silver scabbard, shuffled hastily at his heels with bowed head, and his eyes on the ground. And in the midst of a great stir they passed swift and absorbed, like two men hurrying through a great solitude. In his council hall he was surrounded by the gravity of armed chiefs, while two long rows of old headmen dressed in cotton stuffs squatted on their heels, with idle arms hanging over their knees. Under the thatch roof supported by smooth columns, of which each one had cost the life of a straight-stemmed young palm, the scent of flowering hedges drifted in warm waves. The sun was sinking. In the open courtyard suppliants walked through the gate, raising, when yet far off, their joined hands above bowed heads, and bending low in the bright stream of sunlight. Young girls, with flowers in their laps, sat under the wide-spreading boughs of a big tree. The blue smoke of wood fires spread in a thin mist above the high-pitched roofs of houses that had glistening walls of woven reeds, and all round them rough wooden pillars under the sloping eaves. He dispensed justice in the shade; from a high seat he gave orders, advice, reproof. Now and then the hum of approbation rose louder, and idle spearmen that lounged listlessly against the posts, looking at the girls, would turn their heads slowly. To no man had been given the shelter of so much respect, confidence, and awe. Yet at times he would lean forward and appear to listen as for a far-off note of discord, as if expecting to hear some faint voice, the sound of light footsteps; or he would start half up in his seat, as though he had been familiarly touched on the shoulder. He glanced back with apprehension; his aged follower whispered inaudibly at his ear; the chiefs turned their eyes away in silence, for the old wizard, the man who could command ghosts and send evil spirits against enemies, was speaking low to their ruler. Around the short stillness of the open place the trees rustled faintly, the soft laughter of girls playing with the flowers rose in clear bursts of joyous sound. At the end of upright spear-shafts the long tufts of dyed horse-hair waved crimson and filmy in the gust of wind; and beyond the blaze of hedges the brook of limpid quick water ran invisible and loud under the drooping grass of the bank, with a great murmur, passionate and gentle. After sunset, far across the fields and over the bay, clusters of torches could be seen burning under the high roofs of the council shed. Smoky red flames swayed on high poles, and the fiery blaze flickered over faces, clung to the smooth trunks of palm-trees, kindled bright sparks on the rims of metal dishes standing on fine floor-mats. That obscure adventurer feasted like a king. Small groups of men crouched in tight circles round the wooden platters; brown hands hovered over snowy heaps of rice. Sitting upon a rough couch apart from the others, he leaned on his elbow with inclined head; and near him a youth improvised in a high tone a song that celebrated his valour and wisdom. The singer rocked himself to and fro, rolling frenzied eyes; old women hobbled about with dishes, and men, squatting low, lifted their heads to listen gravely without ceasing to eat. The song of triumph vibrated in the night, and the stanzas rolled out mournful and fiery like the thoughts of a hermit. He silenced it with a sign, �Enough!� An owl hooted far away, exulting in the delight of deep gloom in dense foliage; overhead lizards ran in the attap thatch, calling softly; the dry leaves of the roof rustled; the rumour of mingled voices grew louder suddenly. After a circular and startled glance, as of a man waking up abruptly to the sense of danger, he would throw himself back, and under the downward gaze of the old sorcerer take up, wide-eyed, the slender thread of his dream. They watched his moods; the swelling rumour of animated talk subsided like a wave on a sloping beach. The chief is pensive. And above the spreading whisper of lowered voices only a little rattle of weapons would be heard, a single louder word distinct and alone, or the grave ring of a big brass tray. III For two years at short intervals we visited him. We came to like him, to trust him, almost to admire him. He was plotting and preparing a war with patience, with foresight--with a fidelity to his purpose and with a steadfastness of which I would have thought him racially incapable. He seemed fearless of the future, and in his plans displayed a sagacity that was only limited by his profound ignorance of the rest of the world. We tried to enlighten him, but our attempts to make clear the irresistible nature of the forces which he desired to arrest failed to discourage his eagerness to strike a blow for his own primitive ideas. He did not understand us, and replied by arguments that almost drove one to desperation by their childish shrewdness. He was absurd and unanswerable. Sometimes we caught glimpses of a sombre, glowing fury within him--a brooding and vague sense of wrong, and a concentrated lust of violence which is dangerous in a native. He raved like one inspired. On one occasion, after we had been talking to him late in his campong, he jumped up. A great, clear fire blazed in the grove; lights and shadows danced together between the trees; in the still night bats flitted in and out of the boughs like fluttering flakes of denser darkness. He snatched the sword from the old man, whizzed it out of the scabbard, and thrust the point into the earth. Upon the thin, upright blade the silver hilt, released, swayed before him like something alive. He stepped back a pace, and in a deadened tone spoke fiercely to the vibrating steel: �If there is virtue in the fire, in the iron, in the hand that forged thee, in the words spoken over thee, in the desire of my heart, and in the wisdom of thy makers,--then we shall be victorious together!� He drew it out, looked along the edge. �Take,� he said over his shoulder to the old sword-bearer. The other, unmoved on his hams, wiped the point with a corner of his sarong, and returning the weapon to its scabbard, sat nursing it on his knees without a single look upwards. Karain, suddenly very calm, reseated himself with dignity. We gave up remonstrating after this, and let him go his way to an honourable disaster. All we could do for him was to see to it that the powder was good for the money and the rifles serviceable, if old. But the game was becoming at last too dangerous; and if we, who had faced it pretty often, thought little of the danger, it was decided for us by some very respectable people sitting safely in counting-houses that the risks were too great, and that only one more trip could be made. After giving in the usual way many misleading hints as to our destination, we slipped away quietly, and after a very quick passage entered the bay. It was early morning, and even before the anchor went to the bottom the schooner was surrounded by boats. The first thing we heard was that Karain�s mysterious sword-bearer had died a few days ago. We did not attach much importance to the news. It was certainly difficult to imagine Karain without his inseparable follower; but the fellow was old, he had never spoken to one of us, we hardly ever had heard the sound of his voice; and we had come to look upon him as upon something inanimate, as a part of our friend�s trappings of state--like that sword he had carried, or the fringed red umbrella displayed during an official progress. Karain did not visit us in the afternoon as usual. A message of greeting and a present of fruit and vegetables came off for us before sunset. Our friend paid us like a banker, but treated us like a prince. We sat up for him till midnight. Under the stern awning bearded Jackson jingled an old guitar and sang, with an execrable accent, Spanish love-songs; while young Hollis and I, sprawling on the deck, had a game of chess by the light of a cargo lantern. Karain did not appear. Next day we were busy unloading, and heard that the Rajah was unwell. The expected invitation to visit him ashore did not come. We sent friendly messages, but, fearing to intrude upon some secret council, remained on board. Early on the third day we had landed all the powder and rifles, and also a six-pounder brass gun with its carriage which we had subscribed together for a present for our friend. The afternoon was sultry. Ragged edges of black clouds peeped over the hills, and invisible thunderstorms circled outside, growling like wild beasts. We got the schooner ready for sea, intending to leave next morning at daylight. All day a merciless sun blazed down into the bay, fierce and pale, as if at white heat. Nothing moved on the land. The beach was empty, the villages seemed deserted; the trees far off stood in unstirring clumps, as if painted; the white smoke of some invisible bush-fire spread itself low over the shores of the bay like a settling fog. Late in the day three of Karain�s chief men, dressed in their best and armed to the teeth, came off in a canoe, bringing a case of dollars. They were gloomy and languid, and told us they had not seen their Rajah for five days. No one had seen him! We settled all accounts, and after shaking hands in turn and in profound silence, they descended one after another into their boat, and were paddled to the shore, sitting close together, clad in vivid colours, with hanging heads: the gold embroideries of their jackets flashed dazzlingly as they went away gliding on the smooth water, and not one of them looked back once. Before sunset the growling clouds carried with a rush the ridge of hills, and came tumbling down the inner slopes. Everything disappeared; black whirling vapours filled the bay, and in the midst of them the schooner swung here and there in the shifting gusts of wind. A single clap of thunder detonated in the hollow with a violence that seemed capable of bursting into small pieces the ring of high land, and a warm deluge descended. The wind died out. We panted in the close cabin; our faces streamed; the bay outside hissed as if boiling; the water fell in perpendicular shafts as heavy as lead; it swished about the deck, poured off the spars, gurgled, sobbed, splashed, murmured in the blind night. Our lamp burned low. Hollis, stripped to the waist, lay stretched out on the lockers, with closed eyes and motionless like a despoiled corpse; at his head Jackson twanged the guitar, and gasped out in sighs a mournful dirge about hopeless love and eyes like stars. Then we heard startled voices on deck crying in the rain, hurried footsteps overhead, and suddenly Karain appeared in the doorway of the cabin. His bare breast and his face glistened in the light; his sarong, soaked, clung about his legs; he had his sheathed kriss in his left hand; and wisps of wet hair, escaping from under his red kerchief, stuck over his eyes and down his cheeks. He stepped in with a headlong stride and looking over his shoulder like a man pursued. Hollis turned on his side quickly and opened his eyes. Jackson clapped his big hand over the strings and the jingling vibration died suddenly. I stood up. �We did not hear your boat�s hail!� I exclaimed. �Boat! The man�s swum off,� drawled out Hollis from the locker. �Look at him!� He breathed heavily, wild-eyed, while we looked at him in silence. Water dripped from him, made a dark pool, and ran crookedly across the cabin floor. We could hear Jackson, who had gone out to drive away our Malay seamen from the doorway of the companion; he swore menacingly in the patter of a heavy shower, and there was a great commotion on deck. The watchmen, scared out of their wits by the glimpse of a shadowy figure leaping over the rail, straight out of the night as it were, had alarmed all hands. Then Jackson, with glittering drops of water on his hair and beard, came back looking angry, and Hollis, who, being the youngest of us, assumed an indolent superiority, said without stirring, �Give him a dry sarong--give him mine; it�s hanging up in the bathroom.� Karain laid the kriss on the table, hilt inwards, and murmured a few words in a strangled voice. �What�s that?� asked Hollis, who had not heard. �He apologizes for coming in with a weapon in his hand,� I said, dazedly. �Ceremonious beggar. Tell him we forgive a friend . . . on such a night,� drawled out Hollis. �What�s wrong?� Karain slipped the dry sarong over his head, dropped the wet one at his feet, and stepped out of it. I pointed to the wooden armchair--his armchair. He sat down very straight, said �Ha!� in a strong voice; a short shiver shook his broad frame. He looked over his shoulder uneasily, turned as if to speak to us, but only stared in a curious blind manner, and again looked back. Jackson bellowed out, �Watch well on deck there!� heard a faint answer from above, and reaching out with his foot slammed-to the cabin door. �All right now,� he said. Karain�s lips moved slightly. A vivid flash of lightning made the two round stern-ports facing him glimmer like a pair of cruel and phosphorescent eyes. The flame of the lamp seemed to wither into brown dust for an instant, and the looking-glass over the little sideboard leaped out behind his back in a smooth sheet of livid light. The roll of thunder came near, crashed over us; the schooner trembled, and the great voice went on, threatening terribly, into the distance. For less than a minute a furious shower rattled on the decks. Karain looked slowly from face to face, and then the silence became so profound that we all could hear distinctly the two chronometers in my cabin ticking along with unflagging speed against one another. And we three, strangely moved, could not take our eyes from him. He had become enigmatical and touching, in virtue of that mysterious cause that had driven him through the night and through the thunderstorm to the shelter of the schooner�s cuddy. Not one of us doubted that we were looking at a fugitive, incredible as it appeared to us. He was haggard, as though he had not slept for weeks; he had become lean, as though he had not eaten for days. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes sunk, the muscles of his chest and arms twitched slightly as if after an exhausting contest. Of course it had been a long swim off to the schooner; but his face showed another kind of fatigue, the tormented weariness, the anger and the fear of a struggle against a thought, an idea--against something that cannot be grappled, that never rests--a shadow, a nothing, unconquerable and immortal, that preys upon life. We knew it as though he had shouted it at us. His chest expanded time after time, as if it could not contain the beating of his heart. For a moment he had the power of the possessed--the power to awaken in the beholders wonder, pain, pity, and a fearful near sense of things invisible, of things dark and mute, that surround the loneliness of mankind. His eyes roamed about aimlessly for a moment, then became still. He said with effort-- �I came here . . . I leaped out of my stockade as after a defeat. I ran in the night. The water was black. I left him calling on the edge of black water. . . . I left him standing alone on the beach. I swam . . . he called out after me . . . I swam . . .� He trembled from head to foot, sitting very upright and gazing straight before him. Left whom? Who called? We did not know. We could not understand. I said at all hazards-- �Be firm.� The sound of my voice seemed to steady him into a sudden rigidity, but otherwise he took no notice. He seemed to listen, to expect something for a moment, then went on-- �He cannot come here--therefore I sought you. You men with white faces who despise the invisible voices. He cannot abide your unbelief and your strength.� He was silent for a while, then exclaimed softly-- �Oh! the strength of unbelievers!� �There�s no one here but you--and we three,� said Hollis, quietly. He reclined with his head supported on elbow and did not budge. �I know,� said Karain. �He has never followed me here. Was not the wise man ever by my side? But since the old wise man, who knew of my trouble, has died, I have heard the voice every night. I shut myself up--for many days--in the dark. I can hear the sorrowful murmurs of women, the whisper of the wind, of the running waters; the clash of weapons in the hands of faithful men, their footsteps--and his voice! . . . Near . . . So! In my ear! I felt him near . . . His breath passed over my neck. I leaped out without a cry. All about me men slept quietly. I ran to the sea. He ran by my side without footsteps, whispering, whispering old words--whispering into my ear in his old voice. I ran into the sea; I swam off to you, with my kriss between my teeth. I, armed, I fled before a breath--to you. Take me away to your land. The wise old man has died, and with him is gone the power of his words and charms. And I can tell no one. No one. There is no one here faithful enough and wise enough to know. It is only near you, unbelievers, that my trouble fades like a mist under the eye of day.� He turned to me. �With you I go!� he cried in a contained voice. �With you, who know so many of us. I want to leave this land--my people . . . and him--there!� He pointed a shaking finger at random over his shoulder. It was hard for us to bear the intensity of that undisclosed distress. Hollis stared at him hard. I asked gently-- �Where is the danger?� �Everywhere outside this place,� he answered, mournfully. �In every place where I am. He waits for me on the paths, under the trees, in the place where I sleep--everywhere but here.� He looked round the little cabin, at the painted beams, at the tarnished varnish of bulkheads; he looked round as if appealing to all its shabby strangeness, to the disorderly jumble of unfamiliar things that belong to an inconceivable life of stress, of power, of endeavour, of unbelief--to the strong life of white men, which rolls on irresistible and hard on the edge of outer darkness. He stretched out his arms as if to embrace it and us. We waited. The wind and rain had ceased, and the stillness of the night round the schooner was as dumb and complete as if a dead world had been laid to rest in a grave of clouds. We expected him to speak. The necessity within him tore at his lips. There are those who say that a native will not speak to a white man. Error. No man will speak to his master; but to a wanderer and a friend, to him who does not come to teach or to rule, to him who asks for nothing and accepts all things, words are spoken by the camp-fires, in the shared solitude of the sea, in riverside villages, in resting-places surrounded by forests--words are spoken that take no account of race or colour. One heart speaks--another one listens; and the earth, the sea, the sky, the passing wind and the stirring leaf, hear also the futile tale of the burden of life. He spoke at last. It is impossible to convey the effect of his story. It is undying, it is but a memory, and its vividness cannot be made clear to another mind, any more than the vivid emotions of a dream. One must have seen his innate splendour, one must have known him before--looked at him then. The wavering gloom of the little cabin; the breathless stillness outside, through which only the lapping of water against the schooner�s sides could be heard; Hollis�s pale face, with steady dark eyes; the energetic head of Jackson held up between two big palms, and with the long yellow hair of his beard flowing over the strings of the guitar lying on the table; Karain�s upright and motionless pose, his tone--all this made an impression that cannot be forgotten. He faced us across the table. His dark head and bronze torso appeared above the tarnished slab of wood, gleaming and still as if cast in metal. Only his lips moved, and his eyes glowed, went out, blazed again, or stared mournfully. His expressions came straight from his tormented heart. His words sounded low, in a sad murmur as of running water; at times they rang loud like the clash of a war-gong--or trailed slowly like weary travellers--or rushed forward with the speed of fear. IV This is, imperfectly, what he said-- �It was after the great trouble that broke the alliance of the four states of Wajo. We fought amongst ourselves, and the Dutch watched from afar till we were weary. Then the smoke of their fire-ships was seen at the mouth of our rivers, and their great men came in boats full of soldiers to talk to us of protection and peace. We answered with caution and wisdom, for our villages were burnt, our stockades weak, the people weary, and the weapons blunt. They came and went; there had been much talk, but after they went away everything seemed to be as before, only their ships remained in sight from our coast, and very soon their traders came amongst us under a promise of safety. My brother was a Ruler, and one of those who had given the promise. I was young then, and had fought in the war, and Pata Matara had fought by my side. We had shared hunger, danger, fatigue, and victory. His eyes saw my danger quickly, and twice my arm had preserved his life. It was his destiny. He was my friend. And he was great amongst us--one of those who were near my brother, the Ruler. He spoke in council, his courage was great, he was the chief of many villages round the great lake that is in the middle of our country as the heart is in the middle of a man�s body. When his sword was carried into a campong in advance of his coming, the maidens whispered wonderingly under the fruit-trees, the rich men consulted together in the shade, and a feast was made ready with rejoicing and songs. He had the favour of the Ruler and the affection of the poor. He loved war, deer hunts, and the charms of women. He was the possessor of jewels, of lucky weapons, and of men�s devotion. He was a fierce man; and I had no other friend. �I was the chief of a stockade at the mouth of the river, and collected tolls for my brother from the passing boats. One day I saw a Dutch trader go up the river. He went up with three boats, and no toll was demanded from him, because the smoke of Dutch war-ships stood out from the open sea, and we were too weak to forget treaties. He went up under the promise of safety, and my brother gave him protection. He said he came to trade. He listened to our voices, for we are men who speak openly and without fear; he counted the number of our spears, he examined the trees, the running waters, the grasses of the bank, the slopes of our hills. He went up to Matara�s country and obtained permission to build a house. He traded and planted. He despised our joys, our thoughts, and our sorrows. His face was red, his hair like flame, and his eyes pale, like a river mist; he moved heavily, and spoke with a deep voice; he laughed aloud like a fool, and knew no courtesy in his speech. He was a big, scornful man, who looked into women�s faces and put his hand on the shoulders of free men as though he had been a noble-born chief. We bore with him. Time passed. �Then Pata Matara�s sister fled from the campong and went to live in the Dutchman�s house. She was a great and wilful lady: I had seen her once carried high on slaves� shoulders amongst the people, with uncovered face, and I had heard all men say that her beauty was extreme, silencing the reason and ravishing the heart of the beholders. The people were dismayed; Matara�s face was blackened with that disgrace, for she knew she had been promised to another man. Matara went to the Dutchman�s house, and said, �Give her up to die--she is the daughter of chiefs.� The white man refused and shut himself up, while his servants kept guard night and day with loaded guns. Matara raged. My brother called a council. But the Dutch ships were near, and watched our coast greedily. My brother said, �If he dies now our land will pay for his blood. Leave him alone till we grow stronger and the ships are gone.� Matara was wise; he waited and watched. But the white man feared for her life and went away. �He left his house, his plantations, and his goods! He departed, armed and menacing, and left all--for her! She had ravished his heart! From my stockade I saw him put out to sea in a big boat. Matara and I watched him from the fighting platform behind the pointed stakes. He sat cross-legged, with his gun in his hands, on the roof at the stern of his prau. The barrel of his rifle glinted aslant before his big red face. The broad river was stretched under him--level, smooth, shining, like a plain of silver; and his prau, looking very short and black from the shore, glided along the silver plain and over into the blue of the sea. �Thrice Matara, standing by my side, called aloud her name with grief and imprecations. He stirred my heart. It leaped three times; and three times with the eyes of my mind I saw in the gloom within the enclosed space of the prau a woman with streaming hair going away from her land and her people. I was angry--and sorry. Why? And then I also cried out insults and threats. Matara said, �Now they have left our land their lives are mind. I shall follow and strike--and, alone, pay the price of blood.� A great wind was sweeping towards the setting sun over the empty river. I cried, �By your side I will go!� He lowered his head in sign of assent. It was his destiny. The sun had set, and the trees swayed their boughs with a great noise above our heads. �On the third night we two left our land together in a trading prau. �The sea met us--the sea, wide, pathless, and without voice. A sailing prau leaves no track. We went south. The moon was full; and, looking up, we said to one another, �When the next moon shines as this one, we shall return and they will be dead.� It was fifteen years ago. Many moons have grown full and withered and I have not seen my land since. We sailed south; we overtook many praus; we examined the creeks and the bays; we saw the end of our coast, of our island--a steep cape over a disturbed strait, where drift the shadows of shipwrecked praus and drowned men clamour in the night. The wide sea was all round us now. We saw a great mountain burning in the midst of water; we saw thousands of islets scattered like bits of iron fired from a big gun; we saw a long coast of mountain and lowlands stretching away in sunshine from west to east. It was Java. We said, �They are there; their time is near, and we shall return or die cleansed from dishonour.� �We landed. Is there anything good in that country? The paths run straight and hard and dusty. Stone campongs, full of white faces, are surrounded by fertile fields, but every man you meet is a slave. The rulers live under the edge of a foreign sword. We ascended mountains, we traversed valleys; at sunset we entered villages. We asked everyone, �Have you seen such a white man?� Some stared; others laughed; women gave us food, sometimes, with fear and respect, as though we had been distracted by the visitation of God; but some did not understand our language, and some cursed us, or, yawning, asked with contempt the reason of our quest. Once, as we were going away, an old man called after us, �Desist!� �We went on. Concealing our weapons, we stood humbly aside before the horsemen on the road; we bowed low in the courtyards of chiefs who were no better than slaves. We lost ourselves in the fields, in the jungle; and one night, in a tangled forest, we came upon a place where crumbling old walls had fallen amongst the trees, and where strange stone idols--carved images of devils with many arms and legs, with snakes twined round their bodies, with twenty heads and holding a hundred swords--seemed to live and threaten in the light of our camp fire. Nothing dismayed us. And on the road, by every fire, in resting-places, we always talked of her and of him. Their time was near. We spoke of nothing else. No! not of hunger, thirst, weariness, and faltering hearts. No! we spoke of him and her! Of her! And we thought of them--of her! Matara brooded by the fire. I sat and thought and thought, till suddenly I could see again the image of a woman, beautiful, and young, and great and proud, and tender, going away from her land and her people. Matara said, �When we find them we shall kill her first to cleanse the dishonour--then the man must die.� I would say, �It shall be so; it is your vengeance.� He stared long at me with his big sunken eyes. �We came back to the coast. Our feet were bleeding, our bodies thin. We slept in rags under the shadow of stone enclosures; we prowled, soiled and lean, about the gateways of white men�s courtyards. Their hairy dogs barked at us, and their servants shouted from afar, �Begone!� Low-born wretches, that keep watch over the streets of stone campongs, asked us who we were. We lied, we cringed, we smiled with hate in our hearts, and we kept looking here, looking there for them--for the white man with hair like flame, and for her, for the woman who had broken faith, and therefore must die. We looked. At last in every woman�s face I thought I could see hers. We ran swiftly. No! Sometimes Matara would whisper, �Here is the man,� and we waited, crouching. He came near. It was not the man--those Dutchmen are all alike. We suffered the anguish of deception. In my sleep I saw her face, and was both joyful and sorry . . . . Why? . . . I seemed to hear a whisper near me. I turned swiftly. She was not there! And as we trudged wearily from stone city to stone city I seemed to hear a light footstep near me. A time came when I heard it always, and I was glad. I thought, walking dizzy and weary in sunshine on the hard paths of white men I thought, She is there--with us! . . . Matara was sombre. We were often hungry. �We sold the carved sheaths of our krisses--the ivory sheaths with golden ferules. We sold the jewelled hilts. But we kept the blades--for them. The blades that never touch but kill--we kept the blades for her. . . . Why? She was always by our side. . . . We starved. We begged. We left Java at last. �We went West, we went East. We saw many lands, crowds of strange faces, men that live in trees and men who eat their old people. We cut rattans in the forest for a handful of rice, and for a living swept the decks of big ships and heard curses heaped upon our heads. We toiled in villages; we wandered upon the seas with the Bajow people, who have no country. We fought for pay; we hired ourselves to work for Goram men, and were cheated; and under the orders of rough white faces we dived for pearls in barren bays, dotted with black rocks, upon a coast of sand and desolation. And everywhere we watched, we listened, we asked. We asked traders, robbers, white men. We heard jeers, mockery, threats--words of wonder and words of contempt. We never knew rest; we never thought of home, for our work was not done. A year passed, then another. I ceased to count the number of nights, of moons, of years. I watched over Matara. He had my last handful of rice; if there was water enough for one he drank it; I covered him up when he shivered with cold; and when the hot sickness came upon him I sat sleepless through many nights and fanned his face. He was a fierce man, and my friend. He spoke of her with fury in the daytime, with sorrow in the dark; he remembered her in health, in sickness. I said nothing; but I saw her every day--always! At first I saw only her head, as of a woman walking in the low mist on a river bank. Then she sat by our fire. I saw her! I looked at her! She had tender eyes and a ravishing face. I murmured to her in the night. Matara said sleepily sometimes, �To whom are you talking? Who is there?� I answered quickly, �No one� . . . It was a lie! She never left me. She shared the warmth of our fire, she sat on my couch of leaves, she swam on the sea to follow me. . . . I saw her! . . . I tell you I saw her long black hair spread behind her upon the moonlit water as she struck out with bare arms by the side of a swift prau. She was beautiful, she was faithful, and in the silence of foreign countries she spoke to me very low in the language of my people. No one saw her; no one heard her; she was mine only! In daylight she moved with a swaying walk before me upon the weary paths; her figure was straight and flexible like the stem of a slender tree; the heels of her feet were round and polished like shells of eggs; with her round arm she made signs. At night she looked into my face. And she was sad! Her eyes were tender and frightened; her voice soft and pleading. Once I murmured to her, �You shall not die,� and she smiled . . . ever after she smiled! . . . She gave me courage to bear weariness and hardships. Those were times of pain, and she soothed me. We wandered patient in our search. We knew deception, false hopes; we knew captivity, sickness, thirst, misery, despair . . . . Enough! We found them! . . .� He cried out the last words and paused. His face was impassive, and he kept still like a man in a trance. Hollis sat up quickly, and spread his elbows on the table. Jackson made a brusque movement, and accidentally touched the guitar. A plaintive resonance filled the cabin with confused vibrations and died out slowly. Then Karain began to speak again. The restrained fierceness of his tone seemed to rise like a voice from outside, like a thing unspoken but heard; it filled the cabin and enveloped in its intense and deadened murmur the motionless figure in the chair. �We were on our way to Atjeh, where there was war; but the vessel ran on a sandbank, and we had to land in Delli. We had earned a little money, and had bought a gun from some Selangore traders; only one gun, which was fired by the spark of a stone; Matara carried it. We landed. Many white men lived there, planting tobacco on conquered plains, and Matara . . . But no matter. He saw him! . . . The Dutchman! . . . At last! . . . We crept and watched. Two nights and a day we watched. He had a house--a big house in a clearing in the midst of his fields; flowers and bushes grew around; there were narrow paths of yellow earth between the cut grass, and thick hedges to keep people out. The third night we came armed, and lay behind a hedge. �A heavy dew seemed to soak through our flesh and made our very entrails cold. The grass, the twigs, the leaves, covered with drops of water, were gray in the moonlight. Matara, curled up in the grass, shivered in his sleep. My teeth rattled in my head so loud that I was afraid the noise would wake up all the land. Afar, the watchmen of white men�s houses struck wooden clappers and hooted in the darkness. And, as every night, I saw her by my side. She smiled no more! . . . The fire of anguish burned in my breast, and she whispered to me with compassion, with pity, softly--as women will; she soothed the pain of my mind; she bent her face over me--the face of a woman who ravishes the hearts and silences the reason of men. She was all mine, and no one could see her--no one of living mankind! Stars shone through her bosom, through her floating hair. I was overcome with regret, with tenderness, with sorrow. Matara slept . . . Had I slept? Matara was shaking me by the shoulder, and the fire of the sun was drying the grass, the bushes, the leaves. It was day. Shreds of white mist hung between the branches of trees. �Was it night or day? I saw nothing again till I heard Matara breathe quickly where he lay, and then outside the house I saw her. I saw them both. They had come out. She sat on a bench under the wall, and twigs laden with flowers crept high above her head, hung over her hair. She had a box on her lap, and gazed into it, counting the increase of her pearls. The Dutchman stood by looking on; he smiled down at her; his white teeth flashed; the hair on his lip was like two twisted flames. He was big and fat, and joyous, and without fear. Matara tipped fresh priming from the hollow of his palm, scraped the flint with his thumb-nail, and gave the gun to me. To me! I took it . . . O fate! �He whispered into my ear, lying on his stomach, �I shall creep close and then amok . . . let her die by my hand. You take aim at the fat swine there. Let him see me strike my shame off the face of the earth--and then . . . you are my friend--kill with a sure shot.� I said nothing; there was no air in my chest--there was no air in the world. Matara had gone suddenly from my side. The grass nodded. Then a bush rustled. She lifted her head. �I saw her! The consoler of sleepless nights, of weary days; the companion of troubled years! I saw her! She looked straight at the place where I crouched. She was there as I had seen her for years--a faithful wanderer by my side. She looked with sad eyes and had smiling lips; she looked at me . . . Smiling lips! Had I not promised that she should not die! �She was far off and I felt her near. Her touch caressed me, and her voice murmured, whispered above me, around me. �Who shall be thy companion, who shall console thee if I die?� I saw a flowering thicket to the left of her stir a little . . . Matara was ready . . . I cried aloud--�Return!� �She leaped up; the box fell; the pearls streamed at her feet. The big Dutchman by her side rolled menacing eyes through the still sunshine. The gun went up to my shoulder. I was kneeling and I was firm--firmer than the trees, the rocks, the mountains. But in front of the steady long barrel the fields, the house, the earth, the sky swayed to and fro like shadows in a forest on a windy day. Matara burst out of the thicket; before him the petals of torn flowers whirled high as if driven by a tempest. I heard her cry; I saw her spring with open arms in front of the white man. She was a woman of my country and of noble blood. They are so! I heard her shriek of anguish and fear--and all stood still! The fields, the house, the earth, the sky stood still--while Matara leaped at her with uplifted arm. I pulled the trigger, saw a spark, heard nothing; the smoke drove back into my face, and then I could see Matara roll over head first and lie with stretched arms at her feet. Ha! A sure shot! The sunshine fell on my back colder than the running water. A sure shot! I flung the gun after the shot. Those two stood over the dead man as though they had been bewitched by a charm. I shouted at her, �Live and remember!� Then for a time I stumbled about in a cold darkness. �Behind me there were great shouts, the running of many feet; strange men surrounded me, cried meaningless words into my face, pushed me, dragged me, supported me . . . I stood before the big Dutchman: he stared as if bereft of his reason. He wanted to know, he talked fast, he spoke of gratitude, he offered me food, shelter, gold--he asked many questions. I laughed in his face. I said, �I am a Korinchi traveller from Perak over there, and know nothing of that dead man. I was passing along the path when I heard a shot, and your senseless people rushed out and dragged me here.� He lifted his arms, he wondered, he could not believe, he could not understand, he clamoured in his own tongue! She had her arms clasped round his neck, and over her shoulder stared back at me with wide eyes. I smiled and looked at her; I smiled and waited to hear the sound of her voice. The white man asked her suddenly. �Do you know him?� I listened--my life was in my ears! She looked at me long, she looked at me with unflinching eyes, and said aloud, �No! I never saw him before.� . . . What! Never before? Had she forgotten already? Was it possible? Forgotten already--after so many years--so many years of wandering, of companionship, of trouble, of tender words! Forgotten already! . . . I tore myself out from the hands that held me and went away without a word . . . They let me go. �I was weary. Did I sleep? I do not know. I remember walking upon a broad path under a clear starlight; and that strange country seemed so big, the rice-fields so vast, that, as I looked around, my head swam with the fear of space. Then I saw a forest. The joyous starlight was heavy upon me. I turned off the path and entered the forest, which was very sombre and very sad.� V Karain�s tone had been getting lower and lower, as though he had been going away from us, till the last words sounded faint but clear, as if shouted on a calm day from a very great distance. He moved not. He stared fixedly past the motionless head of Hollis, who faced him, as still as himself. Jackson had turned sideways, and with elbow on the table shaded his eyes with the palm of his hand. And I looked on, surprised and moved; I looked at that man, loyal to a vision, betrayed by his dream, spurned by his illusion, and coming to us unbelievers for help--against a thought. The silence was profound; but it seemed full of noiseless phantoms, of things sorrowful, shadowy, and mute, in whose invisible presence the firm, pulsating beat of the two ship�s chronometers ticking off steadily the seconds of Greenwich Time seemed to me a protection and a relief. Karain stared stonily; and looking at his rigid figure, I thought of his wanderings, of that obscure Odyssey of revenge, of all the men that wander amongst illusions faithful, faithless; of the illusions that give joy, that give sorrow, that give pain, that give peace; of the invincible illusions that can make life and death appear serene, inspiring, tormented, or ignoble. A murmur was heard; that voice from outside seemed to flow out of a dreaming world into the lamp-light of the cabin. Karain was speaking. �I lived in the forest. �She came no more. Never! Never once! I lived alone. She had forgotten. It was well. I did not want her; I wanted no one. I found an abandoned house in an old clearing. Nobody came near. Sometimes I heard in the distance the voices of people going along a path. I slept; I rested; there was wild rice, water from a running stream--and peace! Every night I sat alone by my small fire before the hut. Many nights passed over my head. �Then, one evening, as I sat by my fire after having eaten, I looked down on the ground and began to remember my wanderings. I lifted my head. I had heard no sound, no rustle, no footsteps--but I lifted my head. A man was coming towards me across the small clearing. I waited. He came up without a greeting and squatted down into the firelight. Then he turned his face to me. It was Matara. He stared at me fiercely with his big sunken eyes. The night was cold; the heat died suddenly out of the fire, and he stared at me. I rose and went away from there, leaving him by the fire that had no heat. �I walked all that night, all next day, and in the evening made up a big blaze and sat down--to wait for him. He had not come into the light. I heard him in the bushes here and there, whispering, whispering. I understood at last--I had heard the words before, �You are my friend--kill with a sure shot.� �I bore it as long as I could--then leaped away, as on this very night I leaped from my stockade and swam to you. I ran--I ran crying like a child left alone and far from the houses. He ran by my side, without footsteps, whispering, whispering--invisible and heard. I sought people--I wanted men around me! Men who had not died! And again we two wandered. I sought danger, violence, and death. I fought in the Atjeh war, and a brave people wondered at the valiance of a stranger. But we were two; he warded off the blows . . . Why? I wanted peace, not life. And no one could see him; no one knew--I dared tell no one. At times he would leave me, but not for long; then he would return and whisper or stare. My heart was torn with a strange fear, but could not die. Then I met an old man. �You all knew him. People here called him my sorcerer, my servant and sword-bearer; but to me he was father, mother, protection, refuge and peace. When I met him he was returning from a pilgrimage, and I heard him intoning the prayer of sunset. He had gone to the holy place with his son, his son�s wife, and a little child; and on their return, by the favour of the Most High, they all died: the strong man, the young mother, the little child--they died; and the old man reached his country alone. He was a pilgrim serene and pious, very wise and very lonely. I told him all. For a time we lived together. He said over me words of compassion, of wisdom, of prayer. He warded from me the shade of the dead. I begged him for a charm that would make me safe. For a long time he refused; but at last, with a sigh and a smile, he gave me one. Doubtless he could command a spirit stronger than the unrest of my dead friend, and again I had peace; but I had become restless, and a lover of turmoil and danger. The old man never left me. We travelled together. We were welcomed by the great; his wisdom and my courage are remembered where your strength, O white men, is forgotten! We served the Sultan of Sula. We fought the Spaniards. There were victories, hopes, defeats, sorrow, blood, women�s tears . . . What for? . . . We fled. We collected wanderers of a warlike race and came here to fight again. The rest you know. I am the ruler of a conquered land, a lover of war and danger, a fighter and a plotter. But the old man has died, and I am again the slave of the dead. He is not here now to drive away the reproachful shade--to silence the lifeless voice! The power of his charm has died with him. And I know fear; and I hear the whisper, �Kill! kill! kill!� . . . Have I not killed enough? . . .� For the first time that night a sudden convulsion of madness and rage passed over his face. His wavering glances darted here and there like scared birds in a thunderstorm. He jumped up, shouting-- �By the spirits that drink blood: by the spirits that cry in the night: by all the spirits of fury, misfortune, and death, I swear--some day I will strike into every heart I meet--I . . .� He looked so dangerous that we all three leaped to our feet, and Hollis, with the back of his hand, sent the kriss flying off the table. I believe we shouted together. It was a short scare, and the next moment he was again composed in his chair, with three white men standing over him in rather foolish attitudes. We felt a little ashamed of ourselves. Jackson picked up the kriss, and, after an inquiring glance at me, gave it to him. He received it with a stately inclination of the head and stuck it in the twist of his sarong, with punctilious care to give his weapon a pacific position. Then he looked up at us with an austere smile. We were abashed and reproved. Hollis sat sideways on the table and, holding his chin in his hand, scrutinized him in pensive silence. I said-- �You must abide with your people. They need you. And there is forgetfulness in life. Even the dead cease to speak in time.� �Am I a woman, to forget long years before an eyelid has had the time to beat twice?� he exclaimed, with bitter resentment. He startled me. It was amazing. To him his life--that cruel mirage of love and peace--seemed as real, as undeniable, as theirs would be to any saint, philosopher, or fool of us all. Hollis muttered-- �You won�t soothe him with your platitudes.� Karain spoke to me. �You know us. You have lived with us. Why?--we cannot know; but you understand our sorrows and our thoughts. You have lived with my people, and you understand our desires and our fears. With you I will go. To your land--to your people. To your people, who live in unbelief; to whom day is day, and night is night--nothing more, because you understand all things seen, and despise all else! To your land of unbelief, where the dead do not speak, where every man is wise, and alone--and at peace!� �Capital description,� murmured Hollis, with the flicker of a smile. Karain hung his head. �I can toil, and fight--and be faithful,� he whispered, in a weary tone, �but I cannot go back to him who waits for me on the shore. No! Take me with you . . . Or else give me some of your strength--of your unbelief. . . . A charm! . . .� He seemed utterly exhausted. �Yes, take him home,� said Hollis, very low, as if debating with himself. �That would be one way. The ghosts there are in society, and talk affably to ladies and gentlemen, but would scorn a naked human being--like our princely friend. . . . Naked . . . Flayed! I should say. I am sorry for him. Impossible--of course. The end of all this shall be,� he went on, looking up at us--�the end of this shall be, that some day he will run amuck amongst his faithful subjects and send �ad patres� ever so many of them before they make up their minds to the disloyalty of knocking him on the head.� I nodded. I thought it more than probable that such would be the end of Karain. It was evident that he had been hunted by his thought along the very limit of human endurance, and very little more pressing was needed to make him swerve over into the form of madness peculiar to his race. The respite he had during the old man�s life made the return of the torment unbearable. That much was clear. He lifted his head suddenly; we had imagined for a moment that he had been dozing. �Give me your protection--or your strength!� he cried. �A charm . . . a weapon!� Again his chin fell on his breast. We looked at him, then looked at one another with suspicious awe in our eyes, like men who come unexpectedly upon the scene of some mysterious disaster. He had given himself up to us; he had thrust into our hands his errors and his torment, his life and his peace; and we did not know what to do with that problem from the outer darkness. We three white men, looking at the Malay, could not find one word to the purpose amongst us--if indeed there existed a word that could solve that problem. We pondered, and our hearts sank. We felt as though we three had been called to the very gate of Infernal Regions to judge, to decide the fate of a wanderer coming suddenly from a world of sunshine and illusions. �By Jove, he seems to have a great idea of our power,� whispered Hollis, hopelessly. And then again there was a silence, the feeble plash of water, the steady tick of chronometers. Jackson, with bare arms crossed, leaned his shoulders against the bulkhead of the cabin. He was bending his head under the deck beam; his fair beard spread out magnificently over his chest; he looked colossal, ineffectual, and mild. There was something lugubrious in the aspect of the cabin; the air in it seemed to become slowly charged with the cruel chill of helplessness, with the pitiless anger of egoism against the incomprehensible form of an intruding pain. We had no idea what to do; we began to resent bitterly the hard necessity to get rid of him. Hollis mused, muttered suddenly with a short laugh, �Strength . . . Protection . . . Charm.� He slipped off the table and left the cuddy without a look at us. It seemed a base desertion. Jackson and I exchanged indignant glances. We could hear him rummaging in his pigeon-hole of a cabin. Was the fellow actually going to bed? Karain sighed. It was intolerable! Then Hollis reappeared, holding in both hands a small leather box. He put it down gently on the table and looked at us with a queer gasp, we thought, as though he had from some cause become speechless for a moment, or were ethically uncertain about producing that box. But in an instant the insolent and unerring wisdom of his youth gave him the needed courage. He said, as he unlocked the box with a very small key, �Look as solemn as you can, you fellows.� Probably we looked only surprised and stupid, for he glanced over his shoulder, and said angrily-- �This is no play; I am going to do something for him. Look serious. Confound it! . . . Can�t you lie a little . . . for a friend!� Karain seemed to take no notice of us, but when Hollis threw open the lid of the box his eyes flew to it--and so did ours. The quilted crimson satin of the inside put a violent patch of colour into the sombre atmosphere; it was something positive to look at--it was fascinating. VI Hollis looked smiling into the box. He had lately made a dash home through the Canal. He had been away six months, and only joined us again just in time for this last trip. We had never seen the box before. His hands hovered above it; and he talked to us ironically, but his face became as grave as though he were pronouncing a powerful incantation over the things inside. �Every one of us,� he said, with pauses that somehow were more offensive than his words--�every one of us, you�ll admit, has been haunted by some woman . . . And . . . as to friends . . . dropped by the way . . . Well! . . . ask yourselves . . .� He paused. Karain stared. A deep rumble was heard high up under the deck. Jackson spoke seriously-- �Don�t be so beastly cynical.� �Ah! You are without guile,� said Hollis, sadly. �You will learn . . . Meantime this Malay has been our friend . . .� He repeated several times thoughtfully, �Friend . . . Malay. Friend, Malay,� as though weighing the words against one another, then went on more briskly-- �A good fellow--a gentleman in his way. We can�t, so to speak, turn our backs on his confidence and belief in us. Those Malays are easily impressed--all nerves, you know--therefore . . .� He turned to me sharply. �You know him best,� he said, in a practical tone. �Do you think he is fanatical--I mean very strict in his faith?� I stammered in profound amazement that �I did not think so.� �It�s on account of its being a likeness--an engraved image,� muttered Hollis, enigmatically, turning to the box. He plunged his fingers into it. Karain�s lips were parted and his eyes shone. We looked into the box. There were there a couple of reels of cotton, a packet of needles, a bit of silk ribbon, dark blue; a cabinet photograph, at which Hollis stole a glance before laying it on the table face downwards. A girl�s portrait, I could see. There were, amongst a lot of various small objects, a bunch of flowers, a narrow white glove with many buttons, a slim packet of letters carefully tied up. Amulets of white men! Charms and talismans! Charms that keep them straight, that drive them crooked, that have the power to make a young man sigh, an old man smile. Potent things that procure dreams of joy, thoughts of regret; that soften hard hearts, and can temper a soft one to the hardness of steel. Gifts of heaven--things of earth . . . Hollis rummaged in the box. And it seemed to me, during that moment of waiting, that the cabin of the schooner was becoming filled with a stir invisible and living as of subtle breaths. All the ghosts driven out of the unbelieving West by men who pretend to be wise and alone and at peace--all the homeless ghosts of an unbelieving world--appeared suddenly round the figure of Hollis bending over the box; all the exiled and charming shades of loved women; all the beautiful and tender ghosts of ideals, remembered, forgotten, cherished, execrated; all the cast-out and reproachful ghosts of friends admired, trusted, traduced, betrayed, left dead by the way--they all seemed to come from the inhospitable regions of the earth to crowd into the gloomy cabin, as though it had been a refuge and, in all the unbelieving world, the only place of avenging belief. . . . It lasted a second--all disappeared. Hollis was facing us alone with something small that glittered between his fingers. It looked like a coin. �Ah! here it is,� he said. He held it up. It was a sixpence--a Jubilee sixpence. It was gilt; it had a hole punched near the rim. Hollis looked towards Karain. �A charm for our friend,� he said to us. �The thing itself is of great power--money, you know--and his imagination is struck. A loyal vagabond; if only his puritanism doesn�t shy at a likeness . . .� We said nothing. We did not know whether to be scandalized, amused, or relieved. Hollis advanced towards Karain, who stood up as if startled, and then, holding the coin up, spoke in Malay. �This is the image of the Great Queen, and the most powerful thing the white men know,� he said, solemnly. Karain covered the handle of his kriss in sign of respect, and stared at the crowned head. �The Invincible, the Pious,� he muttered. �She is more powerful than Suleiman the Wise, who commanded the genii, as you know,� said Hollis, gravely. �I shall give this to you.� He held the sixpence in the palm of his hand, and looking at it thoughtfully, spoke to us in English. �She commands a spirit, too--the spirit of her nation; a masterful, conscientious, unscrupulous, unconquerable devil . . . that does a lot of good--incidentally . . . a lot of good . . . at times--and wouldn�t stand any fuss from the best ghost out for such a little thing as our friend�s shot. Don�t look thunderstruck, you fellows. Help me to make him believe--everything�s in that.� �His people will be shocked,� I murmured. Hollis looked fixedly at Karain, who was the incarnation of the very essence of still excitement. He stood rigid, with head thrown back; his eyes rolled wildly, flashing; the dilated nostrils quivered. �Hang it all!� said Hollis at last, �he is a good fellow. I�ll give him something that I shall really miss.� He took the ribbon out of the box, smiled at it scornfully, then with a pair of scissors cut out a piece from the palm of the glove. �I shall make him a thing like those Italian peasants wear, you know.� He sewed the coin in the delicate leather, sewed the leather to the ribbon, tied the ends together. He worked with haste. Karain watched his fingers all the time. �Now then,� he said--then stepped up to Karain. They looked close into one another�s eyes. Those of Karain stared in a lost glance, but Hollis�s seemed to grow darker and looked out masterful and compelling. They were in violent contrast together--one motionless and the colour of bronze, the other dazzling white and lifting his arms, where the powerful muscles rolled slightly under a skin that gleamed like satin. Jackson moved near with the air of a man closing up to a chum in a tight place. I said impressively, pointing to Hollis-- �He is young, but he is wise. Believe him!� Karain bent his head: Hollis threw lightly over it the dark-blue ribbon and stepped back. �Forget, and be at peace!� I cried. Karain seemed to wake up from a dream. He said, �Ha!� shook himself as if throwing off a burden. He looked round with assurance. Someone on deck dragged off the skylight cover, and a flood of light fell into the cabin. It was morning already. �Time to go on deck,� said Jackson. Hollis put on a coat, and we went up, Karain leading. The sun had risen beyond the hills, and their long shadows stretched far over the bay in the pearly light. The air was clear, stainless, and cool. I pointed at the curved line of yellow sands. �He is not there,� I said, emphatically, to Karain. �He waits no more. He has departed forever.� A shaft of bright hot rays darted into the bay between the summits of two hills, and the water all round broke out as if by magic into a dazzling sparkle. �No! He is not there waiting,� said Karain, after a long look over the beach. �I do not hear him,� he went on, slowly. �No!� He turned to us. �He has departed again--forever!� he cried. We assented vigorously, repeatedly, and without compunction. The great thing was to impress him powerfully; to suggest absolute safety--the end of all trouble. We did our best; and I hope we affirmed our faith in the power of Hollis�s charm efficiently enough to put the matter beyond the shadow of a doubt. Our voices rang around him joyously in the still air, and above his head the sky, pellucid, pure, stainless, arched its tender blue from shore to shore and over the bay, as if to envelop the water, the earth, and the man in the caress of its light. The anchor was up, the sails hung still, and half-a-dozen big boats were seen sweeping over the bay to give us a tow out. The paddlers in the first one that came alongside lifted their heads and saw their ruler standing amongst us. A low murmur of surprise arose--then a shout of greeting. He left us, and seemed straightway to step into the glorious splendour of his stage, to wrap himself in the illusion of unavoidable success. For a moment he stood erect, one foot over the gangway, one hand on the hilt of his kriss, in a martial pose; and, relieved from the fear of outer darkness, he held his head high, he swept a serene look over his conquered foothold on the earth. The boats far off took up the cry of greeting; a great clamour rolled on the water; the hills echoed it, and seemed to toss back at him the words invoking long life and victories. He descended into a canoe, and as soon as he was clear of the side we gave him three cheers. They sounded faint and orderly after the wild tumult of his loyal subjects, but it was the best we could do. He stood up in the boat, lifted up both his arms, then pointed to the infallible charm. We cheered again; and the Malays in the boats stared--very much puzzled and impressed. I wondered what they thought; what he thought; . . . what the reader thinks? We towed out slowly. We saw him land and watch us from the beach. A figure approached him humbly but openly--not at all like a ghost with a grievance. We could see other men running towards him. Perhaps he had been missed? At any rate there was a great stir. A group formed itself rapidly near him, and he walked along the sands, followed by a growing cortege and kept nearly abreast of the schooner. With our glasses we could see the blue ribbon on his neck and a patch of white on his brown chest. The bay was waking up. The smokes of morning fires stood in faint spirals higher than the heads of palms; people moved between the houses; a herd of buffaloes galloped clumsily across a green slope; the slender figures of boys brandishing sticks appeared black and leaping in the long grass; a coloured line of women, with water bamboos on their heads, moved swaying through a thin grove of fruit-trees. Karain stopped in the midst of his men and waved his hand; then, detaching himself from the splendid group, walked alone to the water�s edge and waved his hand again. The schooner passed out to sea between the steep headlands that shut in the bay, and at the same instant Karain passed out of our life forever. But the memory remains. Some years afterwards I met Jackson, in the Strand. He was magnificent as ever. His head was high above the crowd. His beard was gold, his face red, his eyes blue; he had a wide-brimmed gray hat and no collar or waistcoat; he was inspiring; he had just come home--had landed that very day! Our meeting caused an eddy in the current of humanity. Hurried people would run against us, then walk round us, and turn back to look at that giant. We tried to compress seven years of life into seven exclamations; then, suddenly appeased, walked sedately along, giving one another the news of yesterday. Jackson gazed about him, like a man who looks for landmarks, then stopped before Bland�s window. He always had a passion for firearms; so he stopped short and contemplated the row of weapons, perfect and severe, drawn up in a line behind the black-framed panes. I stood by his side. Suddenly he said-- �Do you remember Karain?� I nodded. �The sight of all this made me think of him,� he went on, with his face near the glass . . . and I could see another man, powerful and bearded, peering at him intently from amongst the dark and polished tubes that can cure so many illusions. �Yes; it made me think of him,� he continued, slowly. �I saw a paper this morning; they are fighting over there again. He�s sure to be in it. He will make it hot for the caballeros. Well, good luck to him, poor devil! He was perfectly stunning.� We walked on. �I wonder whether the charm worked--you remember Hollis�s charm, of course. If it did . . . Never was a sixpence wasted to better advantage! Poor devil! I wonder whether he got rid of that friend of his. Hope so. . . . Do you know, I sometimes think that--� I stood still and looked at him. �Yes . . . I mean, whether the thing was so, you know . . . whether it really happened to him. . . . What do you think?� �My dear chap,� I cried, �you have been too long away from home. What a question to ask! Only look at all this.� A watery gleam of sunshine flashed from the west and went out between two long lines of walls; and then the broken confusion of roofs, the chimney-stacks, the gold letters sprawling over the fronts of houses, the sombre polish of windows, stood resigned and sullen under the falling gloom. The whole length of the street, deep as a well and narrow like a corridor, was full of a sombre and ceaseless stir. Our ears were filled by a headlong shuffle and beat of rapid footsteps and by an underlying rumour--a rumour vast, faint, pulsating, as of panting breaths, of beating hearts, of gasping voices. Innumerable eyes stared straight in front, feet moved hurriedly, blank faces flowed, arms swung. Over all, a narrow ragged strip of smoky sky wound about between the high roofs, extended and motionless, like a soiled streamer flying above the rout of a mob. �Ye-e-e-s,� said Jackson, meditatively. The big wheels of hansoms turned slowly along the edge of side-walks; a pale-faced youth strolled, overcome by weariness, by the side of his stick and with the tails of his overcoat flapping gently near his heels; horses stepped gingerly on the greasy pavement, tossing their heads; two young girls passed by, talking vivaciously and with shining eyes; a fine old fellow strutted, red-faced, stroking a white moustache; and a line of yellow boards with blue letters on them approached us slowly, tossing on high behind one another like some queer wreckage adrift upon a river of hats. �Ye-e-es,� repeated Jackson. His clear blue eyes looked about, contemptuous, amused and hard, like the eyes of a boy. A clumsy string of red, yellow, and green omnibuses rolled swaying, monstrous and gaudy; two shabby children ran across the road; a knot of dirty men with red neckerchiefs round their bare throats lurched along, discussing filthily; a ragged old man with a face of despair yelled horribly in the mud the name of a paper; while far off, amongst the tossing heads of horses, the dull flash of harnesses, the jumble of lustrous panels and roofs of carriages, we could see a policeman, helmeted and dark, stretching out a rigid arm at the crossing of the streets. �Yes; I see it,� said Jackson, slowly. �It is there; it pants, it runs, it rolls; it is strong and alive; it would smash you if you didn�t look out; but I�ll be hanged if it is yet as real to me as . . . as the other thing . . . say, Karain�s story.� I think that, decidedly, he had been too long away from home. THE IDIOTS We were driving along the road from Treguier to Kervanda. We passed at a smart trot between the hedges topping an earth wall on each side of the road; then at the foot of the steep ascent before Ploumar the horse dropped into a walk, and the driver jumped down heavily from the box. He flicked his whip and climbed the incline, stepping clumsily uphill by the side of the carriage, one hand on the footboard, his eyes on the ground. After a while he lifted his head, pointed up the road with the end of the whip, and said-- �The idiot!� The sun was shining violently upon the undulating surface of the land. The rises were topped by clumps of meagre trees, with their branches showing high on the sky as if they had been perched upon stilts. The small fields, cut up by hedges and stone walls that zig-zagged over the slopes, lay in rectangular patches of vivid greens and yellows, resembling the unskilful daubs of a naive picture. And the landscape was divided in two by the white streak of a road stretching in long loops far away, like a river of dust crawling out of the hills on its way to the sea. �Here he is,� said the driver, again. In the long grass bordering the road a face glided past the carriage at the level of the wheels as we drove slowly by. The imbecile face was red, and the bullet head with close-cropped hair seemed to lie alone, its chin in the dust. The body was lost in the bushes growing thick along the bottom of the deep ditch. It was a boy�s face. He might have been sixteen, judging from the size--perhaps less, perhaps more. Such creatures are forgotten by time, and live untouched by years till death gathers them up into its compassionate bosom; the faithful death that never forgets in the press of work the most insignificant of its children. �Ah! there�s another,� said the man, with a certain satisfaction in his tone, as if he had caught sight of something expected. There was another. That one stood nearly in the middle of the road in the blaze of sunshine at the end of his own short shadow. And he stood with hands pushed into the opposite sleeves of his long coat, his head sunk between the shoulders, all hunched up in the flood of heat. From a distance he had the aspect of one suffering from intense cold. �Those are twins,� explained the driver. The idiot shuffled two paces out of the way and looked at us over his shoulder when we brushed past him. The glance was unseeing and staring, a fascinated glance; but he did not turn to look after us. Probably the image passed before the eyes without leaving any trace on the misshapen brain of the creature. When we had topped the ascent I looked over the hood. He stood in the road just where we had left him. The driver clambered into his seat, clicked his tongue, and we went downhill. The brake squeaked horribly from time to time. At the foot he eased off the noisy mechanism and said, turning half round on his box-- �We shall see some more of them by-and-by.� �More idiots? How many of them are there, then?� I asked. �There�s four of them--children of a farmer near Ploumar here. . . . The parents are dead now,� he added, after a while. �The grandmother lives on the farm. In the daytime they knock about on this road, and they come home at dusk along with the cattle. . . . It�s a good farm.� We saw the other two: a boy and a girl, as the driver said. They were dressed exactly alike, in shapeless garments with petticoat-like skirts. The imperfect thing that lived within them moved those beings to howl at us from the top of the bank, where they sprawled amongst the tough stalks of furze. Their cropped black heads stuck out from the bright yellow wall of countless small blossoms. The faces were purple with the strain of yelling; the voices sounded blank and cracked like a mechanical imitation of old people�s voices; and suddenly ceased when we turned into a lane. I saw them many times in my wandering about the country. They lived on that road, drifting along its length here and there, according to the inexplicable impulses of their monstrous darkness. They were an offence to the sunshine, a reproach to empty heaven, a blight on the concentrated and purposeful vigour of the wild landscape. In time the story of their parents shaped itself before me out of the listless answers to my questions, out of the indifferent words heard in wayside inns or on the very road those idiots haunted. Some of it was told by an emaciated and sceptical old fellow with a tremendous whip, while we trudged together over the sands by the side of a two-wheeled cart loaded with dripping seaweed. Then at other times other people confirmed and completed the story: till it stood at last before me, a tale formidable and simple, as they always are, those disclosures of obscure trials endured by ignorant hearts. When he returned from his military service Jean-Pierre Bacadou found the old people very much aged. He remarked with pain that the work of the farm was not satisfactorily done. The father had not the energy of old days. The hands did not feel over them the eye of the master. Jean-Pierre noted with sorrow that the heap of manure in the courtyard before the only entrance to the house was not so large as it should have been. The fences were out of repair, and the cattle suffered from neglect. At home the mother was practically bedridden, and the girls chattered loudly in the big kitchen, unrebuked, from morning to night. He said to himself: �We must change all this.� He talked the matter over with his father one evening when the rays of the setting sun entering the yard between the outhouses ruled the heavy shadows with luminous streaks. Over the manure heap floated a mist, opal-tinted and odorous, and the marauding hens would stop in their scratching to examine with a sudden glance of their round eye the two men, both lean and tall, talking in hoarse tones. The old man, all twisted with rheumatism and bowed with years of work, the younger bony and straight, spoke without gestures in the indifferent manner of peasants, grave and slow. But before the sun had set the father had submitted to the sensible arguments of the son. �It is not for me that I am speaking,� insisted Jean-Pierre. �It is for the land. It�s a pity to see it badly used. I am not impatient for myself.� The old fellow nodded over his stick. �I dare say; I dare say,� he muttered. �You may be right. Do what you like. It�s the mother that will be pleased.� The mother was pleased with her daughter-in-law. Jean-Pierre brought the two-wheeled spring-cart with a rush into the yard. The gray horse galloped clumsily, and the bride and bridegroom, sitting side by side, were jerked backwards and forwards by the up and down motion of the shafts, in a manner regular and brusque. On the road the distanced wedding guests straggled in pairs and groups. The men advanced with heavy steps, swinging their idle arms. They were clad in town clothes; jackets cut with clumsy smartness, hard black hats, immense boots, polished highly. Their women all in simple black, with white caps and shawls of faded tints folded triangularly on the back, strolled lightly by their side. In front the violin sang a strident tune, and the biniou snored and hummed, while the player capered solemnly, lifting high his heavy clogs. The sombre procession drifted in and out of the narrow lanes, through sunshine and through shade, between fields and hedgerows, scaring the little birds that darted away in troops right and left. In the yard of Bacadou�s farm the dark ribbon wound itself up into a mass of men and women pushing at the door with cries and greetings. The wedding dinner was remembered for months. It was a splendid feast in the orchard. Farmers of considerable means and excellent repute were to be found sleeping in ditches, all along the road to Treguier, even as late as the afternoon of the next day. All the countryside participated in the happiness of Jean-Pierre. He remained sober, and, together with his quiet wife, kept out of the way, letting father and mother reap their due of honour and thanks. But the next day he took hold strongly, and the old folks felt a shadow--precursor of the grave--fall upon them finally. The world is to the young. When the twins were born there was plenty of room in the house, for the mother of Jean-Pierre had gone away to dwell under a heavy stone in the cemetery of Ploumar. On that day, for the first time since his son�s marriage, the elder Bacadou, neglected by the cackling lot of strange women who thronged the kitchen, left in the morning his seat under the mantel of the fireplace, and went into the empty cow-house, shaking his white locks dismally. Grandsons were all very well, but he wanted his soup at midday. When shown the babies, he stared at them with a fixed gaze, and muttered something like: �It�s too much.� Whether he meant too much happiness, or simply commented upon the number of his descendants, it is impossible to say. He looked offended--as far as his old wooden face could express anything; and for days afterwards could be seen, almost any time of the day, sitting at the gate, with his nose over his knees, a pipe between his gums, and gathered up into a kind of raging concentrated sulkiness. Once he spoke to his son, alluding to the newcomers with a groan: �They will quarrel over the land.� �Don�t bother about that, father,� answered Jean-Pierre, stolidly, and passed, bent double, towing a recalcitrant cow over his shoulder. He was happy, and so was Susan, his wife. It was not an ethereal joy welcoming new souls to struggle, perchance to victory. In fourteen years both boys would be a help; and, later on, Jean-Pierre pictured two big sons striding over the land from patch to patch, wringing tribute from the earth beloved and fruitful. Susan was happy too, for she did not want to be spoken of as the unfortunate woman, and now she had children no one could call her that. Both herself and her husband had seen something of the larger world--he during the time of his service; while she had spent a year or so in Paris with a Breton family; but had been too home-sick to remain longer away from the hilly and green country, set in a barren circle of rocks and sands, where she had been born. She thought that one of the boys ought perhaps to be a priest, but said nothing to her husband, who was a republican, and hated the �crows,� as he called the ministers of religion. The christening was a splendid affair. All the commune came to it, for the Bacadous were rich and influential, and, now and then, did not mind the expense. The grandfather had a new coat. Some months afterwards, one evening when the kitchen had been swept, and the door locked, Jean-Pierre, looking at the cot, asked his wife: �What�s the matter with those children?� And, as if these words, spoken calmly, had been the portent of misfortune, she answered with a loud wail that must have been heard across the yard in the pig-sty; for the pigs (the Bacadous had the finest pigs in the country) stirred and grunted complainingly in the night. The husband went on grinding his bread and butter slowly, gazing at the wall, the soup-plate smoking under his chin. He had returned late from the market, where he had overheard (not for the first time) whispers behind his back. He revolved the words in his mind as he drove back. �Simple! Both of them. . . . Never any use! . . . Well! May be, may be. One must see. Would ask his wife.� This was her answer. He felt like a blow on his chest, but said only: �Go, draw me some cider. I am thirsty!� She went out moaning, an empty jug in her hand. Then he arose, took up the light, and moved slowly towards the cradle. They slept. He looked at them sideways, finished his mouthful there, went back heavily, and sat down before his plate. When his wife returned he never looked up, but swallowed a couple of spoonfuls noisily, and remarked, in a dull manner-- �When they sleep they are like other people�s children.� She sat down suddenly on a stool near by, and shook with a silent tempest of sobs, unable to speak. He finished his meal, and remained idly thrown back in his chair, his eyes lost amongst the black rafters of the ceiling. Before him the tallow candle flared red and straight, sending up a slender thread of smoke. The light lay on the rough, sunburnt skin of his throat; the sunk cheeks were like patches of darkness, and his aspect was mournfully stolid, as if he had ruminated with difficulty endless ideas. Then he said, deliberately-- �We must see . . . consult people. Don�t cry. . . . They won�t all be like that . . . surely! We must sleep now.� After the third child, also a boy, was born, Jean-Pierre went about his work with tense hopefulness. His lips seemed more narrow, more tightly compressed than before; as if for fear of letting the earth he tilled hear the voice of hope that murmured within his breast. He watched the child, stepping up to the cot with a heavy clang of sabots on the stone floor, and glanced in, along his shoulder, with that indifference which is like a deformity of peasant humanity. Like the earth they master and serve, those men, slow of eye and speech, do not show the inner fire; so that, at last, it becomes a question with them as with the earth, what there is in the core: heat, violence, a force mysterious and terrible--or nothing but a clod, a mass fertile and inert, cold and unfeeling, ready to bear a crop of plants that sustain life or give death. The mother watched with other eyes; listened with otherwise expectant ears. Under the high hanging shelves supporting great sides of bacon overhead, her body was busy by the great fireplace, attentive to the pot swinging on iron gallows, scrubbing the long table where the field hands would sit down directly to their evening meal. Her mind remained by the cradle, night and day on the watch, to hope and suffer. That child, like the other two, never smiled, never stretched its hands to her, never spoke; never had a glance of recognition for her in its big black eyes, which could only stare fixedly at any glitter, but failed hopelessly to follow the brilliance of a sun-ray slipping slowly along the floor. When the men were at work she spent long days between her three idiot children and the childish grandfather, who sat grim, angular, and immovable, with his feet near the warm ashes of the fire. The feeble old fellow seemed to suspect that there was something wrong with his grandsons. Only once, moved either by affection or by the sense of proprieties, he attempted to nurse the youngest. He took the boy up from the floor, clicked his tongue at him, and essayed a shaky gallop of his bony knees. Then he looked closely with his misty eyes at the child�s face and deposited him down gently on the floor again. And he sat, his lean shanks crossed, nodding at the steam escaping from the cooking-pot with a gaze senile and worried. Then mute affliction dwelt in Bacadou�s farmhouse, sharing the breath and the bread of its inhabitants; and the priest of the Ploumar parish had great cause for congratulation. He called upon the rich landowner, the Marquis de Chavanes, on purpose to deliver himself with joyful unction of solemn platitudes about the inscrutable ways of Providence. In the vast dimness of the curtained drawing-room, the little man, resembling a black bolster, leaned towards a couch, his hat on his knees, and gesticulated with a fat hand at the elongated, gracefully-flowing lines of the clear Parisian toilette from which the half-amused, half-bored marquise listened with gracious languor. He was exulting and humble, proud and awed. The impossible had come to pass. Jean-Pierre Bacadou, the enraged republican farmer, had been to mass last Sunday--had proposed to entertain the visiting priests at the next festival of Ploumar! It was a triumph for the Church and for the good cause. �I thought I would come at once to tell Monsieur le Marquis. I know how anxious he is for the welfare of our country,� declared the priest, wiping his face. He was asked to stay to dinner. The Chavanes returning that evening, after seeing their guest to the main gate of the park, discussed the matter while they strolled in the moonlight, trailing their long shadows up the straight avenue of chestnuts. The marquise, a royalist of course, had been mayor of the commune which includes Ploumar, the scattered hamlets of the coast, and the stony islands that fringe the yellow flatness of the sands. He had felt his position insecure, for there was a strong republican element in that part of the country; but now the conversion of Jean-Pierre made him safe. He was very pleased. �You have no idea how influential those people are,� he explained to his wife. �Now, I am sure, the next communal election will go all right. I shall be re-elected.� �Your ambition is perfectly insatiable, Charles,� exclaimed the marquise, gaily. �But, ma chere amie,� argued the husband, seriously, �it�s most important that the right man should be mayor this year, because of the elections to the Chamber. If you think it amuses me . . .� Jean-Pierre had surrendered to his wife�s mother. Madame Levaille was a woman of business, known and respected within a radius of at least fifteen miles. Thick-set and stout, she was seen about the country, on foot or in an acquaintance�s cart, perpetually moving, in spite of her fifty-eight years, in steady pursuit of business. She had houses in all the hamlets, she worked quarries of granite, she freighted coasters with stone--even traded with the Channel Islands. She was broad-cheeked, wide-eyed, persuasive in speech: carrying her point with the placid and invincible obstinacy of an old woman who knows her own mind. She very seldom slept for two nights together in the same house; and the wayside inns were the best places to inquire in as to her whereabouts. She had either passed, or was expected to pass there at six; or somebody, coming in, had seen her in the morning, or expected to meet her that evening. After the inns that command the roads, the churches were the buildings she frequented most. Men of liberal opinions would induce small children to run into sacred edifices to see whether Madame Levaille was there, and to tell her that so-and-so was in the road waiting to speak to her about potatoes, or flour, or stones, or houses; and she would curtail her devotions, come out blinking and crossing herself into the sunshine; ready to discuss business matters in a calm, sensible way across a table in the kitchen of the inn opposite. Latterly she had stayed for a few days several times with her son-in-law, arguing against sorrow and misfortune with composed face and gentle tones. Jean-Pierre felt the convictions imbibed in the regiment torn out of his breast--not by arguments but by facts. Striding over his fields he thought it over. There were three of them. Three! All alike! Why? Such things did not happen to everybody--to nobody he ever heard of. One--might pass. But three! All three. Forever useless, to be fed while he lived and . . . What would become of the land when he died? This must be seen to. He would sacrifice his convictions. One day he told his wife-- �See what your God will do for us. Pay for some masses.� Susan embraced her man. He stood unbending, then turned on his heels and went out. But afterwards, when a black soutane darkened his doorway, he did not object; even offered some cider himself to the priest. He listened to the talk meekly; went to mass between the two women; accomplished what the priest called �his religious duties� at Easter. That morning he felt like a man who had sold his soul. In the afternoon he fought ferociously with an old friend and neighbour who had remarked that the priests had the best of it and were now going to eat the priest-eater. He came home dishevelled and bleeding, and happening to catch sight of his children (they were kept generally out of the way), cursed and swore incoherently, banging the table. Susan wept. Madame Levaille sat serenely unmoved. She assured her daughter that �It will pass;� and taking up her thick umbrella, departed in haste to see after a schooner she was going to load with granite from her quarry. A year or so afterwards the girl was born. A girl. Jean-Pierre heard of it in the fields, and was so upset by the news that he sat down on the boundary wall and remained there till the evening, instead of going home as he was urged to do. A girl! He felt half cheated. However, when he got home he was partly reconciled to his fate. One could marry her to a good fellow--not to a good for nothing, but to a fellow with some understanding and a good pair of arms. Besides, the next may be a boy, he thought. Of course they would be all right. His new credulity knew of no doubt. The ill luck was broken. He spoke cheerily to his wife. She was also hopeful. Three priests came to that christening, and Madame Levaille was godmother. The child turned out an idiot too. Then on market days Jean-Pierre was seen bargaining bitterly, quarrelsome and greedy; then getting drunk with taciturn earnestness; then driving home in the dusk at a rate fit for a wedding, but with a face gloomy enough for a funeral. Sometimes he would insist on his wife coming with him; and they would drive in the early morning, shaking side by side on the narrow seat above the helpless pig, that, with tied legs, grunted a melancholy sigh at every rut. The morning drives were silent; but in the evening, coming home, Jean-Pierre, tipsy, was viciously muttering, and growled at the confounded woman who could not rear children that were like anybody else�s. Susan, holding on against the erratic swayings of the cart, pretended not to hear. Once, as they were driving through Ploumar, some obscure and drunken impulse caused him to pull up sharply opposite the church. The moon swam amongst light white clouds. The tombstones gleamed pale under the fretted shadows of the trees in the churchyard. Even the village dogs slept. Only the nightingales, awake, spun out the thrill of their song above the silence of graves. Jean-Pierre said thickly to his wife-- �What do you think is there?� He pointed his whip at the tower--in which the big dial of the clock appeared high in the moonlight like a pallid face without eyes--and getting out carefully, fell down at once by the wheel. He picked himself up and climbed one by one the few steps to the iron gate of the churchyard. He put his face to the bars and called out indistinctly-- �Hey there! Come out!� �Jean! Return! Return!� entreated his wife in low tones. He took no notice, and seemed to wait there. The song of nightingales beat on all sides against the high walls of the church, and flowed back between stone crosses and flat gray slabs, engraved with words of hope and sorrow. �Hey! Come out!� shouted Jean-Pierre, loudly. The nightingales ceased to sing. �Nobody?� went on Jean-Pierre. �Nobody there. A swindle of the crows. That�s what this is. Nobody anywhere. I despise it. _Allez! Houp!_� He shook the gate with all his strength, and the iron bars rattled with a frightful clanging, like a chain dragged over stone steps. A dog near by barked hurriedly. Jean-Pierre staggered back, and after three successive dashes got into his cart. Susan sat very quiet and still. He said to her with drunken severity-- �See? Nobody. I�ve been made a fool! _Malheur!_ Somebody will pay for it. The next one I see near the house I will lay my whip on . . . on the black spine . . . I will. I don�t want him in there . . . he only helps the carrion crows to rob poor folk. I am a man. . . . We will see if I can�t have children like anybody else . . . now you mind. . . . They won�t be all . . . all . . . we see. . . .� She burst out through the fingers that hid her face-- �Don�t say that, Jean; don�t say that, my man!� He struck her a swinging blow on the head with the back of his hand and knocked her into the bottom of the cart, where she crouched, thrown about lamentably by every jolt. He drove furiously, standing up, brandishing his whip, shaking the reins over the gray horse that galloped ponderously, making the heavy harness leap upon his broad quarters. The country rang clamorous in the night with the irritated barking of farm dogs, that followed the rattle of wheels all along the road. A couple of belated wayfarers had only just time to step into the ditch. At his own gate he caught the post and was shot out of the cart head first. The horse went on slowly to the door. At Susan�s piercing cries the farm hands rushed out. She thought him dead, but he was only sleeping where he fell, and cursed his men, who hastened to him, for disturbing his slumbers. Autumn came. The clouded sky descended low upon the black contours of the hills; and the dead leaves danced in spiral whirls under naked trees, till the wind, sighing profoundly, laid them to rest in the hollows of bare valleys. And from morning till night one could see all over the land black denuded boughs, the boughs gnarled and twisted, as if contorted with pain, swaying sadly between the wet clouds and the soaked earth. The clear and gentle streams of summer days rushed discoloured and raging at the stones that barred the way to the sea, with the fury of madness bent upon suicide. From horizon to horizon the great road to the sands lay between the hills in a dull glitter of empty curves, resembling an unnavigable river of mud. Jean-Pierre went from field to field, moving blurred and tall in the drizzle, or striding on the crests of rises, lonely and high upon the gray curtain of drifting clouds, as if he had been pacing along the very edge of the universe. He looked at the black earth, at the earth mute and promising, at the mysterious earth doing its work of life in death-like stillness under the veiled sorrow of the sky. And it seemed to him that to a man worse than childless there was no promise in the fertility of fields, that from him the earth escaped, defied him, frowned at him like the clouds, sombre and hurried above his head. Having to face alone his own fields, he felt the inferiority of man who passes away before the clod that remains. Must he give up the hope of having by his side a son who would look at the turned-up sods with a master�s eye? A man that would think as he thought, that would feel as he felt; a man who would be part of himself, and yet remain to trample masterfully on that earth when he was gone? He thought of some distant relations, and felt savage enough to curse them aloud. They! Never! He turned homewards, going straight at the roof of his dwelling, visible between the enlaced skeletons of trees. As he swung his legs over the stile a cawing flock of birds settled slowly on the field; dropped down behind his back, noiseless and fluttering, like flakes of soot. That day Madame Levaille had gone early in the afternoon to the house she had near Kervanion. She had to pay some of the men who worked in her granite quarry there, and she went in good time because her little house contained a shop where the workmen could spend their wages without the trouble of going to town. The house stood alone amongst rocks. A lane of mud and stones ended at the door. The sea-winds coming ashore on Stonecutter�s point, fresh from the fierce turmoil of the waves, howled violently at the unmoved heaps of black boulders holding up steadily short-armed, high crosses against the tremendous rush of the invisible. In the sweep of gales the sheltered dwelling stood in a calm resonant and disquieting, like the calm in the centre of a hurricane. On stormy nights, when the tide was out, the bay of Fougere, fifty feet below the house, resembled an immense black pit, from which ascended mutterings and sighs as if the sands down there had been alive and complaining. At high tide the returning water assaulted the ledges of rock in short rushes, ending in bursts of livid light and columns of spray, that flew inland, stinging to death the grass of pastures. The darkness came from the hills, flowed over the coast, put out the red fires of sunset, and went on to seaward pursuing the retiring tide. The wind dropped with the sun, leaving a maddened sea and a devastated sky. The heavens above the house seemed to be draped in black rags, held up here and there by pins of fire. Madame Levaille, for this evening the servant of her own workmen, tried to induce them to depart. �An old woman like me ought to be in bed at this late hour,� she good-humouredly repeated. The quarrymen drank, asked for more. They shouted over the table as if they had been talking across a field. At one end four of them played cards, banging the wood with their hard knuckles, and swearing at every lead. One sat with a lost gaze, humming a bar of some song, which he repeated endlessly. Two others, in a corner, were quarrelling confidentially and fiercely over some woman, looking close into one another�s eyes as if they had wanted to tear them out, but speaking in whispers that promised violence and murder discreetly, in a venomous sibillation of subdued words. The atmosphere in there was thick enough to slice with a knife. Three candles burning about the long room glowed red and dull like sparks expiring in ashes. The slight click of the iron latch was at that late hour as unexpected and startling as a thunder-clap. Madame Levaille put down a bottle she held above a liqueur glass; the players turned their heads; the whispered quarrel ceased; only the singer, after darting a glance at the door, went on humming with a stolid face. Susan appeared in the doorway, stepped in, flung the door to, and put her back against it, saying, half aloud-- �Mother!� Madame Levaille, taking up the bottle again, said calmly: �Here you are, my girl. What a state you are in!� The neck of the bottle rang on the rim of the glass, for the old woman was startled, and the idea that the farm had caught fire had entered her head. She could think of no other cause for her daughter�s appearance. Susan, soaked and muddy, stared the whole length of the room towards the men at the far end. Her mother asked-- �What has happened? God guard us from misfortune!� Susan moved her lips. No sound came. Madame Levaille stepped up to her daughter, took her by the arm, looked into her face. �In God�s name,� she said, shakily, �what�s the matter? You have been rolling in mud. . . . Why did you come? . . . Where�s Jean?� The men had all got up and approached slowly, staring with dull surprise. Madame Levaille jerked her daughter away from the door, swung her round upon a seat close to the wall. Then she turned fiercely to the men-- �Enough of this! Out you go--you others! I close.� One of them observed, looking down at Susan collapsed on the seat: �She is--one may say--half dead.� Madame Levaille flung the door open. �Get out! March!� she cried, shaking nervously. They dropped out into the night, laughing stupidly. Outside, the two Lotharios broke out into loud shouts. The others tried to soothe them, all talking at once. The noise went away up the lane with the men, who staggered together in a tight knot, remonstrating with one another foolishly. �Speak, Susan. What is it? Speak!� entreated Madame Levaille, as soon as the door was shut. Susan pronounced some incomprehensible words, glaring at the table. The old woman clapped her hands above her head, let them drop, and stood looking at her daughter with disconsolate eyes. Her husband had been �deranged in his head� for a few years before he died, and now she began to suspect her daughter was going mad. She asked, pressingly-- �Does Jean know where you are? Where is Jean?� �He knows . . . he is dead.� �What!� cried the old woman. She came up near, and peering at her daughter, repeated three times: �What do you say? What do you say? What do you say?� Susan sat dry-eyed and stony before Madame Levaille, who contemplated her, feeling a strange sense of inexplicable horror creep into the silence of the house. She had hardly realised the news, further than to understand that she had been brought in one short moment face to face with something unexpected and final. It did not even occur to her to ask for any explanation. She thought: accident--terrible accident--blood to the head--fell down a trap door in the loft. . . . She remained there, distracted and mute, blinking her old eyes. Suddenly, Susan said-- �I have killed him.� For a moment the mother stood still, almost unbreathing, but with composed face. The next second she burst out into a shout-- �You miserable madwoman . . . they will cut your neck. . . .� She fancied the gendarmes entering the house, saying to her: �We want your daughter; give her up:� the gendarmes with the severe, hard faces of men on duty. She knew the brigadier well--an old friend, familiar and respectful, saying heartily, �To your good health, Madame!� before lifting to his lips the small glass of cognac--out of the special bottle she kept for friends. And now! . . . She was losing her head. She rushed here and there, as if looking for something urgently needed--gave that up, stood stock still in the middle of the room, and screamed at her daughter-- �Why? Say! Say! Why?� The other seemed to leap out of her strange apathy. �Do you think I am made of stone?� she shouted back, striding towards her mother. �No! It�s impossible . . .� said Madame Levaille, in a convinced tone. �You go and see, mother,� retorted Susan, looking at her with blazing eyes. �There�s no money in heaven--no justice. No! . . . I did not know. . . . Do you think I have no heart? Do you think I have never heard people jeering at me, pitying me, wondering at me? Do you know how some of them were calling me? The mother of idiots--that was my nickname! And my children never would know me, never speak to me. They would know nothing; neither men--nor God. Haven�t I prayed! But the Mother of God herself would not hear me. A mother! . . . Who is accursed--I, or the man who is dead? Eh? Tell me. I took care of myself. Do you think I would defy the anger of God and have my house full of those things--that are worse than animals who know the hand that feeds them? Who blasphemed in the night at the very church door? Was it I? . . . I only wept and prayed for mercy . . . and I feel the curse at every moment of the day--I see it round me from morning to night . . . I�ve got to keep them alive--to take care of my misfortune and shame. And he would come. I begged him and Heaven for mercy. . . . No! . . . Then we shall see. . . . He came this evening. I thought to myself: �Ah! again!� . . . I had my long scissors. I heard him shouting . . . I saw him near. . . . I must--must I? . . . Then take! . . . And I struck him in the throat above the breastbone. . . . I never heard him even sigh. . . . I left him standing. . . . It was a minute ago. How did I come here?� Madame Levaille shivered. A wave of cold ran down her back, down her fat arms under her tight sleeves, made her stamp gently where she stood. Quivers ran over the broad cheeks, across the thin lips, ran amongst the wrinkles at the corners of her steady old eyes. She stammered-- �You wicked woman--you disgrace me. But there! You always resembled your father. What do you think will become of you . . . in the other world? In this . . . Oh misery!� She was very hot now. She felt burning inside. She wrung her perspiring hands--and suddenly, starting in great haste, began to look for her big shawl and umbrella, feverishly, never once glancing at her daughter, who stood in the middle of the room following her with a gaze distracted and cold. �Nothing worse than in this,� said Susan. Her mother, umbrella in hand and trailing the shawl over the floor, groaned profoundly. �I must go to the priest,� she burst out passionately. �I do not know whether you even speak the truth! You are a horrible woman. They will find you anywhere. You may stay here--or go. There is no room for you in this world.� Ready now to depart, she yet wandered aimlessly about the room, putting the bottles on the shelf, trying to fit with trembling hands the covers on cardboard boxes. Whenever the real sense of what she had heard emerged for a second from the haze of her thoughts she would fancy that something had exploded in her brain without, unfortunately, bursting her head to pieces--which would have been a relief. She blew the candles out one by one without knowing it, and was horribly startled by the darkness. She fell on a bench and began to whimper. After a while she ceased, and sat listening to the breathing of her daughter, whom she could hardly see, still and upright, giving no other sign of life. She was becoming old rapidly at last, during those minutes. She spoke in tones unsteady, cut about by the rattle of teeth, like one shaken by a deadly cold fit of ague. �I wish you had died little. I will never dare to show my old head in the sunshine again. There are worse misfortunes than idiot children. I wish you had been born to me simple--like your own. . . .� She saw the figure of her daughter pass before the faint and livid clearness of a window. Then it appeared in the doorway for a second, and the door swung to with a clang. Madame Levaille, as if awakened by the noise from a long nightmare, rushed out. �Susan!� she shouted from the doorstep. She heard a stone roll a long time down the declivity of the rocky beach above the sands. She stepped forward cautiously, one hand on the wall of the house, and peered down into the smooth darkness of the empty bay. Once again she cried-- �Susan! You will kill yourself there.� The stone had taken its last leap in the dark, and she heard nothing now. A sudden thought seemed to strangle her, and she called no more. She turned her back upon the black silence of the pit and went up the lane towards Ploumar, stumbling along with sombre determination, as if she had started on a desperate journey that would last, perhaps, to the end of her life. A sullen and periodic clamour of waves rolling over reefs followed her far inland between the high hedges sheltering the gloomy solitude of the fields. Susan had run out, swerving sharp to the left at the door, and on the edge of the slope crouched down behind a boulder. A dislodged stone went on downwards, rattling as it leaped. When Madame Levaille called out, Susan could have, by stretching her hand, touched her mother�s skirt, had she had the courage to move a limb. She saw the old woman go away, and she remained still, closing her eyes and pressing her side to the hard and rugged surface of the rock. After a while a familiar face with fixed eyes and an open mouth became visible in the intense obscurity amongst the boulders. She uttered a low cry and stood up. The face vanished, leaving her to gasp and shiver alone in the wilderness of stone heaps. But as soon as she had crouched down again to rest, with her head against the rock, the face returned, came very near, appeared eager to finish the speech that had been cut short by death, only a moment ago. She scrambled quickly to her feet and said: �Go away, or I will do it again.� The thing wavered, swung to the right, to the left. She moved this way and that, stepped back, fancied herself screaming at it, and was appalled by the unbroken stillness of the night. She tottered on the brink, felt the steep declivity under her feet, and rushed down blindly to save herself from a headlong fall. The shingle seemed to wake up; the pebbles began to roll before her, pursued her from above, raced down with her on both sides, rolling past with an increasing clatter. In the peace of the night the noise grew, deepening to a rumour, continuous and violent, as if the whole semicircle of the stony beach had started to tumble down into the bay. Susan�s feet hardly touched the slope that seemed to run down with her. At the bottom she stumbled, shot forward, throwing her arms out, and fell heavily. She jumped up at once and turned swiftly to look back, her clenched hands full of sand she had clutched in her fall. The face was there, keeping its distance, visible in its own sheen that made a pale stain in the night. She shouted, �Go away!�--she shouted at it with pain, with fear, with all the rage of that useless stab that could not keep him quiet, keep him out of her sight. What did he want now? He was dead. Dead men have no children. Would he never leave her alone? She shrieked at it--waved her outstretched hands. She seemed to feel the breath of parted lips, and, with a long cry of discouragement, fled across the level bottom of the bay. She ran lightly, unaware of any effort of her body. High sharp rocks that, when the bay is full, show above the glittering plain of blue water like pointed towers of submerged churches, glided past her, rushing to the land at a tremendous pace. To the left, in the distance, she could see something shining: a broad disc of light in which narrow shadows pivoted round the centre like the spokes of a wheel. She heard a voice calling, �Hey! There!� and answered with a wild scream. So, he could call yet! He was calling after her to stop. Never! . . . She tore through the night, past the startled group of seaweed-gatherers who stood round their lantern paralysed with fear at the unearthly screech coming from that fleeing shadow. The men leaned on their pitchforks staring fearfully. A woman fell on her knees, and, crossing herself, began to pray aloud. A little girl with her ragged skirt full of slimy seaweed began to sob despairingly, lugging her soaked burden close to the man who carried the light. Somebody said: �The thing ran out towards the sea.� Another voice exclaimed: �And the sea is coming back! Look at the spreading puddles. Do you hear--you woman--there! Get up!� Several voices cried together. �Yes, let us be off! Let the accursed thing go to the sea!� They moved on, keeping close round the light. Suddenly a man swore loudly. He would go and see what was the matter. It had been a woman�s voice. He would go. There were shrill protests from women--but his high form detached itself from the group and went off running. They sent an unanimous call of scared voices after him. A word, insulting and mocking, came back, thrown at them through the darkness. A woman moaned. An old man said gravely: �Such things ought to be left alone.� They went on slower, shuffling in the yielding sand and whispering to one another that Millot feared nothing, having no religion, but that it would end badly some day. Susan met the incoming tide by the Raven islet and stopped, panting, with her feet in the water. She heard the murmur and felt the cold caress of the sea, and, calmer now, could see the sombre and confused mass of the Raven on one side and on the other the long white streak of Molene sands that are left high above the dry bottom of Fougere Bay at every ebb. She turned round and saw far away, along the starred background of the sky, the ragged outline of the coast. Above it, nearly facing her, appeared the tower of Ploumar Church; a slender and tall pyramid shooting up dark and pointed into the clustered glitter of the stars. She felt strangely calm. She knew where she was, and began to remember how she came there--and why. She peered into the smooth obscurity near her. She was alone. There was nothing there; nothing near her, either living or dead. The tide was creeping in quietly, putting out long impatient arms of strange rivulets that ran towards the land between ridges of sand. Under the night the pools grew bigger with mysterious rapidity, while the great sea, yet far off, thundered in a regular rhythm along the indistinct line of the horizon. Susan splashed her way back for a few yards without being able to get clear of the water that murmured tenderly all around and, suddenly, with a spiteful gurgle, nearly took her off her feet. Her heart thumped with fear. This place was too big and too empty to die in. To-morrow they would do with her what they liked. But before she died she must tell them--tell the gentlemen in black clothes that there are things no woman can bear. She must explain how it happened. . . . She splashed through a pool, getting wet to the waist, too preoccupied to care. . . . She must explain. �He came in the same way as ever and said, just so: �Do you think I am going to leave the land to those people from Morbihan that I do not know? Do you? We shall see! Come along, you creature of mischance!� And he put his arms out. Then, Messieurs, I said: �Before God--never!� And he said, striding at me with open palms: �There is no God to hold me! Do you understand, you useless carcase. I will do what I like.� And he took me by the shoulders. Then I, Messieurs, called to God for help, and next minute, while he was shaking me, I felt my long scissors in my hand. His shirt was unbuttoned, and, by the candle-light, I saw the hollow of his throat. I cried: �Let go!� He was crushing my shoulders. He was strong, my man was! Then I thought: No! . . . Must I? . . . Then take!--and I struck in the hollow place. I never saw him fall. . . . The old father never turned his head. He is deaf and childish, gentlemen. . . . Nobody saw him fall. I ran out . . . Nobody saw. . . .� She had been scrambling amongst the boulders of the Raven and now found herself, all out of breath, standing amongst the heavy shadows of the rocky islet. The Raven is connected with the main land by a natural pier of immense and slippery stones. She intended to return home that way. Was he still standing there? At home. Home! Four idiots and a corpse. She must go back and explain. Anybody would understand. . . . Below her the night or the sea seemed to pronounce distinctly-- �Aha! I see you at last!� She started, slipped, fell; and without attempting to rise, listened, terrified. She heard heavy breathing, a clatter of wooden clogs. It stopped. �Where the devil did you pass?� said an invisible man, hoarsely. She held her breath. She recognized the voice. She had not seen him fall. Was he pursuing her there dead, or perhaps . . . alive? She lost her head. She cried from the crevice where she lay huddled, �Never, never!� �Ah! You are still there. You led me a fine dance. Wait, my beauty, I must see how you look after all this. You wait. . . .� Millot was stumbling, laughing, swearing meaninglessly out of pure satisfaction, pleased with himself for having run down that fly-by-night. �As if there were such things as ghosts! Bah! It took an old African soldier to show those clodhoppers. . . . But it was curious. Who the devil was she?� Susan listened, crouching. He was coming for her, this dead man. There was no escape. What a noise he made amongst the stones. . . . She saw his head rise up, then the shoulders. He was tall--her own man! His long arms waved about, and it was his own voice sounding a little strange . . . because of the scissors. She scrambled out quickly, rushed to the edge of the causeway, and turned round. The man stood still on a high stone, detaching himself in dead black on the glitter of the sky. �Where are you going to?� he called, roughly. She answered, �Home!� and watched him intensely. He made a striding, clumsy leap on to another boulder, and stopped again, balancing himself, then said-- �Ha! ha! Well, I am going with you. It�s the least I can do. Ha! ha! ha!� She stared at him till her eyes seemed to become glowing coals that burned deep into her brain, and yet she was in mortal fear of making out the well-known features. Below her the sea lapped softly against the rock with a splash continuous and gentle. The man said, advancing another step-- �I am coming for you. What do you think?� She trembled. Coming for her! There was no escape, no peace, no hope. She looked round despairingly. Suddenly the whole shadowy coast, the blurred islets, the heaven itself, swayed about twice, then came to a rest. She closed her eyes and shouted-- �Can�t you wait till I am dead!� She was shaken by a furious hate for that shade that pursued her in this world, unappeased even by death in its longing for an heir that would be like other people�s children. �Hey! What?� said Millot, keeping his distance prudently. He was saying to himself: �Look out! Some lunatic. An accident happens soon.� She went on, wildly-- �I want to live. To live alone--for a week--for a day. I must explain to them. . . . I would tear you to pieces, I would kill you twenty times over rather than let you touch me while I live. How many times must I kill you--you blasphemer! Satan sends you here. I am damned too!� �Come,� said Millot, alarmed and conciliating. �I am perfectly alive! . . . Oh, my God!� She had screamed, �Alive!� and at once vanished before his eyes, as if the islet itself had swerved aside from under her feet. Millot rushed forward, and fell flat with his chin over the edge. Far below he saw the water whitened by her struggles, and heard one shrill cry for help that seemed to dart upwards along the perpendicular face of the rock, and soar past, straight into the high and impassive heaven. Madame Levaille sat, dry-eyed, on the short grass of the hill side, with her thick legs stretched out, and her old feet turned up in their black cloth shoes. Her clogs stood near by, and further off the umbrella lay on the withered sward like a weapon dropped from the grasp of a vanquished warrior. The Marquis of Chavanes, on horseback, one gloved hand on thigh, looked down at her as she got up laboriously, with groans. On the narrow track of the seaweed-carts four men were carrying inland Susan�s body on a hand-barrow, while several others straggled listlessly behind. Madame Levaille looked after the procession. �Yes, Monsieur le Marquis,� she said dispassionately, in her usual calm tone of a reasonable old woman. �There are unfortunate people on this earth. I had only one child. Only one! And they won�t bury her in consecrated ground!� Her eyes filled suddenly, and a short shower of tears rolled down the broad cheeks. She pulled the shawl close about her. The Marquis leaned slightly over in his saddle, and said-- �It is very sad. You have all my sympathy. I shall speak to the Cure. She was unquestionably insane, and the fall was accidental. Millot says so distinctly. Good-day, Madame.� And he trotted off, thinking to himself: �I must get this old woman appointed guardian of those idiots, and administrator of the farm. It would be much better than having here one of those other Bacadous, probably a red republican, corrupting my commune.� AN OUTPOST OF PROGRESS I There were two white men in charge of the trading station. Kayerts, the chief, was short and fat; Carlier, the assistant, was tall, with a large head and a very broad trunk perched upon a long pair of thin legs. The third man on the staff was a Sierra Leone nigger, who maintained that his name was Henry Price. However, for some reason or other, the natives down the river had given him the name of Makola, and it stuck to him through all his wanderings about the country. He spoke English and French with a warbling accent, wrote a beautiful hand, understood bookkeeping, and cherished in his innermost heart the worship of evil spirits. His wife was a negress from Loanda, very large and very noisy. Three children rolled about in sunshine before the door of his low, shed-like dwelling. Makola, taciturn and impenetrable, despised the two white men. He had charge of a small clay storehouse with a dried-grass roof, and pretended to keep a correct account of beads, cotton cloth, red kerchiefs, brass wire, and other trade goods it contained. Besides the storehouse and Makola�s hut, there was only one large building in the cleared ground of the station. It was built neatly of reeds, with a verandah on all the four sides. There were three rooms in it. The one in the middle was the living-room, and had two rough tables and a few stools in it. The other two were the bedrooms for the white men. Each had a bedstead and a mosquito net for all furniture. The plank floor was littered with the belongings of the white men; open half-empty boxes, torn wearing apparel, old boots; all the things dirty, and all the things broken, that accumulate mysteriously round untidy men. There was also another dwelling-place some distance away from the buildings. In it, under a tall cross much out of the perpendicular, slept the man who had seen the beginning of all this; who had planned and had watched the construction of this outpost of progress. He had been, at home, an unsuccessful painter who, weary of pursuing fame on an empty stomach, had gone out there through high protections. He had been the first chief of that station. Makola had watched the energetic artist die of fever in the just finished house with his usual kind of �I told you so� indifference. Then, for a time, he dwelt alone with his family, his account books, and the Evil Spirit that rules the lands under the equator. He got on very well with his god. Perhaps he had propitiated him by a promise of more white men to play with, by and by. At any rate the director of the Great Trading Company, coming up in a steamer that resembled an enormous sardine box with a flat-roofed shed erected on it, found the station in good order, and Makola as usual quietly diligent. The director had the cross put up over the first agent�s grave, and appointed Kayerts to the post. Carlier was told off as second in charge. The director was a man ruthless and efficient, who at times, but very imperceptibly, indulged in grim humour. He made a speech to Kayerts and Carlier, pointing out to them the promising aspect of their station. The nearest trading-post was about three hundred miles away. It was an exceptional opportunity for them to distinguish themselves and to earn percentages on the trade. This appointment was a favour done to beginners. Kayerts was moved almost to tears by his director�s kindness. He would, he said, by doing his best, try to justify the flattering confidence, &c., &c. Kayerts had been in the Administration of the Telegraphs, and knew how to express himself correctly. Carlier, an ex-non-commissioned officer of cavalry in an army guaranteed from harm by several European Powers, was less impressed. If there were commissions to get, so much the better; and, trailing a sulky glance over the river, the forests, the impenetrable bush that seemed to cut off the station from the rest of the world, he muttered between his teeth, �We shall see, very soon.� Next day, some bales of cotton goods and a few cases of provisions having been thrown on shore, the sardine-box steamer went off, not to return for another six months. On the deck the director touched his cap to the two agents, who stood on the bank waving their hats, and turning to an old servant of the Company on his passage to headquarters, said, �Look at those two imbeciles. They must be mad at home to send me such specimens. I told those fellows to plant a vegetable garden, build new storehouses and fences, and construct a landing-stage. I bet nothing will be done! They won�t know how to begin. I always thought the station on this river useless, and they just fit the station!� �They will form themselves there,� said the old stager with a quiet smile. �At any rate, I am rid of them for six months,� retorted the director. The two men watched the steamer round the bend, then, ascending arm in arm the slope of the bank, returned to the station. They had been in this vast and dark country only a very short time, and as yet always in the midst of other white men, under the eye and guidance of their superiors. And now, dull as they were to the subtle influences of surroundings, they felt themselves very much alone, when suddenly left unassisted to face the wilderness; a wilderness rendered more strange, more incomprehensible by the mysterious glimpses of the vigorous life it contained. They were two perfectly insignificant and incapable individuals, whose existence is only rendered possible through the high organization of civilized crowds. Few men realize that their life, the very essence of their character, their capabilities and their audacities, are only the expression of their belief in the safety of their surroundings. The courage, the composure, the confidence; the emotions and principles; every great and every insignificant thought belongs not to the individual but to the crowd: to the crowd that believes blindly in the irresistible force of its institutions and of its morals, in the power of its police and of its opinion. But the contact with pure unmitigated savagery, with primitive nature and primitive man, brings sudden and profound trouble into the heart. To the sentiment of being alone of one�s kind, to the clear perception of the loneliness of one�s thoughts, of one�s sensations--to the negation of the habitual, which is safe, there is added the affirmation of the unusual, which is dangerous; a suggestion of things vague, uncontrollable, and repulsive, whose discomposing intrusion excites the imagination and tries the civilized nerves of the foolish and the wise alike. Kayerts and Carlier walked arm in arm, drawing close to one another as children do in the dark; and they had the same, not altogether unpleasant, sense of danger which one half suspects to be imaginary. They chatted persistently in familiar tones. �Our station is prettily situated,� said one. The other assented with enthusiasm, enlarging volubly on the beauties of the situation. Then they passed near the grave. �Poor devil!� said Kayerts. �He died of fever, didn�t he?� muttered Carlier, stopping short. �Why,� retorted Kayerts, with indignation, �I�ve been told that the fellow exposed himself recklessly to the sun. The climate here, everybody says, is not at all worse than at home, as long as you keep out of the sun. Do you hear that, Carlier? I am chief here, and my orders are that you should not expose yourself to the sun!� He assumed his superiority jocularly, but his meaning was serious. The idea that he would, perhaps, have to bury Carlier and remain alone, gave him an inward shiver. He felt suddenly that this Carlier was more precious to him here, in the centre of Africa, than a brother could be anywhere else. Carlier, entering into the spirit of the thing, made a military salute and answered in a brisk tone, �Your orders shall be attended to, chief!� Then he burst out laughing, slapped Kayerts on the back and shouted, �We shall let life run easily here! Just sit still and gather in the ivory those savages will bring. This country has its good points, after all!� They both laughed loudly while Carlier thought: �That poor Kayerts; he is so fat and unhealthy. It would be awful if I had to bury him here. He is a man I respect.� . . . Before they reached the verandah of their house they called one another �my dear fellow.� The first day they were very active, pottering about with hammers and nails and red calico, to put up curtains, make their house habitable and pretty; resolved to settle down comfortably to their new life. For them an impossible task. To grapple effectually with even purely material problems requires more serenity of mind and more lofty courage than people generally imagine. No two beings could have been more unfitted for such a struggle. Society, not from any tenderness, but because of its strange needs, had taken care of those two men, forbidding them all independent thought, all initiative, all departure from routine; and forbidding it under pain of death. They could only live on condition of being machines. And now, released from the fostering care of men with pens behind the ears, or of men with gold lace on the sleeves, they were like those lifelong prisoners who, liberated after many years, do not know what use to make of their freedom. They did not know what use to make of their faculties, being both, through want of practice, incapable of independent thought. At the end of two months Kayerts often would say, �If it was not for my Melie, you wouldn�t catch me here.� Melie was his daughter. He had thrown up his post in the Administration of the Telegraphs, though he had been for seventeen years perfectly happy there, to earn a dowry for his girl. His wife was dead, and the child was being brought up by his sisters. He regretted the streets, the pavements, the cafes, his friends of many years; all the things he used to see, day after day; all the thoughts suggested by familiar things--the thoughts effortless, monotonous, and soothing of a Government clerk; he regretted all the gossip, the small enmities, the mild venom, and the little jokes of Government offices. �If I had had a decent brother-in-law,� Carlier would remark, �a fellow with a heart, I would not be here.� He had left the army and had made himself so obnoxious to his family by his laziness and impudence, that an exasperated brother-in-law had made superhuman efforts to procure him an appointment in the Company as a second-class agent. Having not a penny in the world he was compelled to accept this means of livelihood as soon as it became quite clear to him that there was nothing more to squeeze out of his relations. He, like Kayerts, regretted his old life. He regretted the clink of sabre and spurs on a fine afternoon, the barrack-room witticisms, the girls of garrison towns; but, besides, he had also a sense of grievance. He was evidently a much ill-used man. This made him moody, at times. But the two men got on well together in the fellowship of their stupidity and laziness. Together they did nothing, absolutely nothing, and enjoyed the sense of the idleness for which they were paid. And in time they came to feel something resembling affection for one another. They lived like blind men in a large room, aware only of what came in contact with them (and of that only imperfectly), but unable to see the general aspect of things. The river, the forest, all the great land throbbing with life, were like a great emptiness. Even the brilliant sunshine disclosed nothing intelligible. Things appeared and disappeared before their eyes in an unconnected and aimless kind of way. The river seemed to come from nowhere and flow nowhither. It flowed through a void. Out of that void, at times, came canoes, and men with spears in their hands would suddenly crowd the yard of the station. They were naked, glossy black, ornamented with snowy shells and glistening brass wire, perfect of limb. They made an uncouth babbling noise when they spoke, moved in a stately manner, and sent quick, wild glances out of their startled, never-resting eyes. Those warriors would squat in long rows, four or more deep, before the verandah, while their chiefs bargained for hours with Makola over an elephant tusk. Kayerts sat on his chair and looked down on the proceedings, understanding nothing. He stared at them with his round blue eyes, called out to Carlier, �Here, look! look at that fellow there--and that other one, to the left. Did you ever such a face? Oh, the funny brute!� Carlier, smoking native tobacco in a short wooden pipe, would swagger up twirling his moustaches, and surveying the warriors with haughty indulgence, would say-- �Fine animals. Brought any bone? Yes? It�s not any too soon. Look at the muscles of that fellow third from the end. I wouldn�t care to get a punch on the nose from him. Fine arms, but legs no good below the knee. Couldn�t make cavalry men of them.� And after glancing down complacently at his own shanks, he always concluded: �Pah! Don�t they stink! You, Makola! Take that herd over to the fetish� (the storehouse was in every station called the fetish, perhaps because of the spirit of civilization it contained) �and give them up some of the rubbish you keep there. I�d rather see it full of bone than full of rags.� Kayerts approved. �Yes, yes! Go and finish that palaver over there, Mr. Makola. I will come round when you are ready, to weigh the tusk. We must be careful.� Then turning to his companion: �This is the tribe that lives down the river; they are rather aromatic. I remember, they had been once before here. D�ye hear that row? What a fellow has got to put up with in this dog of a country! My head is split.� Such profitable visits were rare. For days the two pioneers of trade and progress would look on their empty courtyard in the vibrating brilliance of vertical sunshine. Below the high bank, the silent river flowed on glittering and steady. On the sands in the middle of the stream, hippos and alligators sunned themselves side by side. And stretching away in all directions, surrounding the insignificant cleared spot of the trading post, immense forests, hiding fateful complications of fantastic life, lay in the eloquent silence of mute greatness. The two men understood nothing, cared for nothing but for the passage of days that separated them from the steamer�s return. Their predecessor had left some torn books. They took up these wrecks of novels, and, as they had never read anything of the kind before, they were surprised and amused. Then during long days there were interminable and silly discussions about plots and personages. In the centre of Africa they made acquaintance of Richelieu and of d�Artagnan, of Hawk�s Eye and of Father Goriot, and of many other people. All these imaginary personages became subjects for gossip as if they had been living friends. They discounted their virtues, suspected their motives, decried their successes; were scandalized at their duplicity or were doubtful about their courage. The accounts of crimes filled them with indignation, while tender or pathetic passages moved them deeply. Carlier cleared his throat and said in a soldierly voice, �What nonsense!� Kayerts, his round eyes suffused with tears, his fat cheeks quivering, rubbed his bald head, and declared. �This is a splendid book. I had no idea there were such clever fellows in the world.� They also found some old copies of a home paper. That print discussed what it was pleased to call �Our Colonial Expansion� in high-flown language. It spoke much of the rights and duties of civilization, of the sacredness of the civilizing work, and extolled the merits of those who went about bringing light, and faith and commerce to the dark places of the earth. Carlier and Kayerts read, wondered, and began to think better of themselves. Carlier said one evening, waving his hand about, �In a hundred years, there will be perhaps a town here. Quays, and warehouses, and barracks, and--and--billiard-rooms. Civilization, my boy, and virtue--and all. And then, chaps will read that two good fellows, Kayerts and Carlier, were the first civilized men to live in this very spot!� Kayerts nodded, �Yes, it is a consolation to think of that.� They seemed to forget their dead predecessor; but, early one day, Carlier went out and replanted the cross firmly. �It used to make me squint whenever I walked that way,� he explained to Kayerts over the morning coffee. �It made me squint, leaning over so much. So I just planted it upright. And solid, I promise you! I suspended myself with both hands to the cross-piece. Not a move. Oh, I did that properly.� At times Gobila came to see them. Gobila was the chief of the neighbouring villages. He was a gray-headed savage, thin and black, with a white cloth round his loins and a mangy panther skin hanging over his back. He came up with long strides of his skeleton legs, swinging a staff as tall as himself, and, entering the common room of the station, would squat on his heels to the left of the door. There he sat, watching Kayerts, and now and then making a speech which the other did not understand. Kayerts, without interrupting his occupation, would from time to time say in a friendly manner: �How goes it, you old image?� and they would smile at one another. The two whites had a liking for that old and incomprehensible creature, and called him Father Gobila. Gobila�s manner was paternal, and he seemed really to love all white men. They all appeared to him very young, indistinguishably alike (except for stature), and he knew that they were all brothers, and also immortal. The death of the artist, who was the first white man whom he knew intimately, did not disturb this belief, because he was firmly convinced that the white stranger had pretended to die and got himself buried for some mysterious purpose of his own, into which it was useless to inquire. Perhaps it was his way of going home to his own country? At any rate, these were his brothers, and he transferred his absurd affection to them. They returned it in a way. Carlier slapped him on the back, and recklessly struck off matches for his amusement. Kayerts was always ready to let him have a sniff at the ammonia bottle. In short, they behaved just like that other white creature that had hidden itself in a hole in the ground. Gobila considered them attentively. Perhaps they were the same being with the other--or one of them was. He couldn�t decide--clear up that mystery; but he remained always very friendly. In consequence of that friendship the women of Gobila�s village walked in single file through the reedy grass, bringing every morning to the station, fowls, and sweet potatoes, and palm wine, and sometimes a goat. The Company never provisions the stations fully, and the agents required those local supplies to live. They had them through the good-will of Gobila, and lived well. Now and then one of them had a bout of fever, and the other nursed him with gentle devotion. They did not think much of it. It left them weaker, and their appearance changed for the worse. Carlier was hollow-eyed and irritable. Kayerts showed a drawn, flabby face above the rotundity of his stomach, which gave him a weird aspect. But being constantly together, they did not notice the change that took place gradually in their appearance, and also in their dispositions. Five months passed in that way. Then, one morning, as Kayerts and Carlier, lounging in their chairs under the verandah, talked about the approaching visit of the steamer, a knot of armed men came out of the forest and advanced towards the station. They were strangers to that part of the country. They were tall, slight, draped classically from neck to heel in blue fringed cloths, and carried percussion muskets over their bare right shoulders. Makola showed signs of excitement, and ran out of the storehouse (where he spent all his days) to meet these visitors. They came into the courtyard and looked about them with steady, scornful glances. Their leader, a powerful and determined-looking negro with bloodshot eyes, stood in front of the verandah and made a long speech. He gesticulated much, and ceased very suddenly. There was something in his intonation, in the sounds of the long sentences he used, that startled the two whites. It was like a reminiscence of something not exactly familiar, and yet resembling the speech of civilized men. It sounded like one of those impossible languages which sometimes we hear in our dreams. �What lingo is that?� said the amazed Carlier. �In the first moment I fancied the fellow was going to speak French. Anyway, it is a different kind of gibberish to what we ever heard.� �Yes,� replied Kayerts. �Hey, Makola, what does he say? Where do they come from? Who are they?� But Makola, who seemed to be standing on hot bricks, answered hurriedly, �I don�t know. They come from very far. Perhaps Mrs. Price will understand. They are perhaps bad men.� The leader, after waiting for a while, said something sharply to Makola, who shook his head. Then the man, after looking round, noticed Makola�s hut and walked over there. The next moment Mrs. Makola was heard speaking with great volubility. The other strangers--they were six in all--strolled about with an air of ease, put their heads through the door of the storeroom, congregated round the grave, pointed understandingly at the cross, and generally made themselves at home. �I don�t like those chaps--and, I say, Kayerts, they must be from the coast; they�ve got firearms,� observed the sagacious Carlier. Kayerts also did not like those chaps. They both, for the first time, became aware that they lived in conditions where the unusual may be dangerous, and that there was no power on earth outside of themselves to stand between them and the unusual. They became uneasy, went in and loaded their revolvers. Kayerts said, �We must order Makola to tell them to go away before dark.� The strangers left in the afternoon, after eating a meal prepared for them by Mrs. Makola. The immense woman was excited, and talked much with the visitors. She rattled away shrilly, pointing here and there at the forests and at the river. Makola sat apart and watched. At times he got up and whispered to his wife. He accompanied the strangers across the ravine at the back of the station-ground, and returned slowly looking very thoughtful. When questioned by the white men he was very strange, seemed not to understand, seemed to have forgotten French--seemed to have forgotten how to speak altogether. Kayerts and Carlier agreed that the nigger had had too much palm wine. There was some talk about keeping a watch in turn, but in the evening everything seemed so quiet and peaceful that they retired as usual. All night they were disturbed by a lot of drumming in the villages. A deep, rapid roll near by would be followed by another far off--then all ceased. Soon short appeals would rattle out here and there, then all mingle together, increase, become vigorous and sustained, would spread out over the forest, roll through the night, unbroken and ceaseless, near and far, as if the whole land had been one immense drum booming out steadily an appeal to heaven. And through the deep and tremendous noise sudden yells that resembled snatches of songs from a madhouse darted shrill and high in discordant jets of sound which seemed to rush far above the earth and drive all peace from under the stars. Carlier and Kayerts slept badly. They both thought they had heard shots fired during the night--but they could not agree as to the direction. In the morning Makola was gone somewhere. He returned about noon with one of yesterday�s strangers, and eluded all Kayerts� attempts to close with him: had become deaf apparently. Kayerts wondered. Carlier, who had been fishing off the bank, came back and remarked while he showed his catch, �The niggers seem to be in a deuce of a stir; I wonder what�s up. I saw about fifteen canoes cross the river during the two hours I was there fishing.� Kayerts, worried, said, �Isn�t this Makola very queer to-day?� Carlier advised, �Keep all our men together in case of some trouble.� II There were ten station men who had been left by the Director. Those fellows, having engaged themselves to the Company for six months (without having any idea of a month in particular and only a very faint notion of time in general), had been serving the cause of progress for upwards of two years. Belonging to a tribe from a very distant part of the land of darkness and sorrow, they did not run away, naturally supposing that as wandering strangers they would be killed by the inhabitants of the country; in which they were right. They lived in straw huts on the slope of a ravine overgrown with reedy grass, just behind the station buildings. They were not happy, regretting the festive incantations, the sorceries, the human sacrifices of their own land; where they also had parents, brothers, sisters, admired chiefs, respected magicians, loved friends, and other ties supposed generally to be human. Besides, the rice rations served out by the Company did not agree with them, being a food unknown to their land, and to which they could not get used. Consequently they were unhealthy and miserable. Had they been of any other tribe they would have made up their minds to die--for nothing is easier to certain savages than suicide--and so have escaped from the puzzling difficulties of existence. But belonging, as they did, to a warlike tribe with filed teeth, they had more grit, and went on stupidly living through disease and sorrow. They did very little work, and had lost their splendid physique. Carlier and Kayerts doctored them assiduously without being able to bring them back into condition again. They were mustered every morning and told off to different tasks--grass-cutting, fence-building, tree-felling, &c., &c., which no power on earth could induce them to execute efficiently. The two whites had practically very little control over them. In the afternoon Makola came over to the big house and found Kayerts watching three heavy columns of smoke rising above the forests. �What is that?� asked Kayerts. �Some villages burn,� answered Makola, who seemed to have regained his wits. Then he said abruptly: �We have got very little ivory; bad six months� trading. Do you like get a little more ivory?� �Yes,� said Kayerts, eagerly. He thought of percentages which were low. �Those men who came yesterday are traders from Loanda who have got more ivory than they can carry home. Shall I buy? I know their camp.� �Certainly,� said Kayerts. �What are those traders?� �Bad fellows,� said Makola, indifferently. �They fight with people, and catch women and children. They are bad men, and got guns. There is a great disturbance in the country. Do you want ivory?� �Yes,� said Kayerts. Makola said nothing for a while. Then: �Those workmen of ours are no good at all,� he muttered, looking round. �Station in very bad order, sir. Director will growl. Better get a fine lot of ivory, then he say nothing.� �I can�t help it; the men won�t work,� said Kayerts. �When will you get that ivory?� �Very soon,� said Makola. �Perhaps to-night. You leave it to me, and keep indoors, sir. I think you had better give some palm wine to our men to make a dance this evening. Enjoy themselves. Work better to-morrow. There�s plenty palm wine--gone a little sour.� Kayerts said �yes,� and Makola, with his own hands carried big calabashes to the door of his hut. They stood there till the evening, and Mrs. Makola looked into every one. The men got them at sunset. When Kayerts and Carlier retired, a big bonfire was flaring before the men�s huts. They could hear their shouts and drumming. Some men from Gobila�s village had joined the station hands, and the entertainment was a great success. In the middle of the night, Carlier waking suddenly, heard a man shout loudly; then a shot was fired. Only one. Carlier ran out and met Kayerts on the verandah. They were both startled. As they went across the yard to call Makola, they saw shadows moving in the night. One of them cried, �Don�t shoot! It�s me, Price.� Then Makola appeared close to them. �Go back, go back, please,� he urged, �you spoil all.� �There are strange men about,� said Carlier. �Never mind; I know,� said Makola. Then he whispered, �All right. Bring ivory. Say nothing! I know my business.� The two white men reluctantly went back to the house, but did not sleep. They heard footsteps, whispers, some groans. It seemed as if a lot of men came in, dumped heavy things on the ground, squabbled a long time, then went away. They lay on their hard beds and thought: �This Makola is invaluable.� In the morning Carlier came out, very sleepy, and pulled at the cord of the big bell. The station hands mustered every morning to the sound of the bell. That morning nobody came. Kayerts turned out also, yawning. Across the yard they saw Makola come out of his hut, a tin basin of soapy water in his hand. Makola, a civilized nigger, was very neat in his person. He threw the soapsuds skilfully over a wretched little yellow cur he had, then turning his face to the agent�s house, he shouted from the distance, �All the men gone last night!� They heard him plainly, but in their surprise they both yelled out together: �What!� Then they stared at one another. �We are in a proper fix now,� growled Carlier. �It�s incredible!� muttered Kayerts. �I will go to the huts and see,� said Carlier, striding off. Makola coming up found Kayerts standing alone. �I can hardly believe it,� said Kayerts, tearfully. �We took care of them as if they had been our children.� �They went with the coast people,� said Makola after a moment of hesitation. �What do I care with whom they went--the ungrateful brutes!� exclaimed the other. Then with sudden suspicion, and looking hard at Makola, he added: �What do you know about it?� Makola moved his shoulders, looking down on the ground. �What do I know? I think only. Will you come and look at the ivory I�ve got there? It is a fine lot. You never saw such.� He moved towards the store. Kayerts followed him mechanically, thinking about the incredible desertion of the men. On the ground before the door of the fetish lay six splendid tusks. �What did you give for it?� asked Kayerts, after surveying the lot with satisfaction. �No regular trade,� said Makola. �They brought the ivory and gave it to me. I told them to take what they most wanted in the station. It is a beautiful lot. No station can show such tusks. Those traders wanted carriers badly, and our men were no good here. No trade, no entry in books: all correct.� Kayerts nearly burst with indignation. �Why!� he shouted, �I believe you have sold our men for these tusks!� Makola stood impassive and silent. �I--I--will--I,� stuttered Kayerts. �You fiend!� he yelled out. �I did the best for you and the Company,� said Makola, imperturbably. �Why you shout so much? Look at this tusk.� �I dismiss you! I will report you--I won�t look at the tusk. I forbid you to touch them. I order you to throw them into the river. You--you!� �You very red, Mr. Kayerts. If you are so irritable in the sun, you will get fever and die--like the first chief!� pronounced Makola impressively. They stood still, contemplating one another with intense eyes, as if they had been looking with effort across immense distances. Kayerts shivered. Makola had meant no more than he said, but his words seemed to Kayerts full of ominous menace! He turned sharply and went away to the house. Makola retired into the bosom of his family; and the tusks, left lying before the store, looked very large and valuable in the sunshine. Carlier came back on the verandah. �They�re all gone, hey?� asked Kayerts from the far end of the common room in a muffled voice. �You did not find anybody?� �Oh, yes,� said Carlier, �I found one of Gobila�s people lying dead before the huts--shot through the body. We heard that shot last night.� Kayerts came out quickly. He found his companion staring grimly over the yard at the tusks, away by the store. They both sat in silence for a while. Then Kayerts related his conversation with Makola. Carlier said nothing. At the midday meal they ate very little. They hardly exchanged a word that day. A great silence seemed to lie heavily over the station and press on their lips. Makola did not open the store; he spent the day playing with his children. He lay full-length on a mat outside his door, and the youngsters sat on his chest and clambered all over him. It was a touching picture. Mrs. Makola was busy cooking all day, as usual. The white men made a somewhat better meal in the evening. Afterwards, Carlier smoking his pipe strolled over to the store; he stood for a long time over the tusks, touched one or two with his foot, even tried to lift the largest one by its small end. He came back to his chief, who had not stirred from the verandah, threw himself in the chair and said-- �I can see it! They were pounced upon while they slept heavily after drinking all that palm wine you�ve allowed Makola to give them. A put-up job! See? The worst is, some of Gobila�s people were there, and got carried off too, no doubt. The least drunk woke up, and got shot for his sobriety. This is a funny country. What will you do now?� �We can�t touch it, of course,� said Kayerts. �Of course not,� assented Carlier. �Slavery is an awful thing,� stammered out Kayerts in an unsteady voice. �Frightful--the sufferings,� grunted Carlier with conviction. They believed their words. Everybody shows a respectful deference to certain sounds that he and his fellows can make. But about feelings people really know nothing. We talk with indignation or enthusiasm; we talk about oppression, cruelty, crime, devotion, self-sacrifice, virtue, and we know nothing real beyond the words. Nobody knows what suffering or sacrifice mean--except, perhaps the victims of the mysterious purpose of these illusions. Next morning they saw Makola very busy setting up in the yard the big scales used for weighing ivory. By and by Carlier said: �What�s that filthy scoundrel up to?� and lounged out into the yard. Kayerts followed. They stood watching. Makola took no notice. When the balance was swung true, he tried to lift a tusk into the scale. It was too heavy. He looked up helplessly without a word, and for a minute they stood round that balance as mute and still as three statues. Suddenly Carlier said: �Catch hold of the other end, Makola--you beast!� and together they swung the tusk up. Kayerts trembled in every limb. He muttered, �I say! O! I say!� and putting his hand in his pocket found there a dirty bit of paper and the stump of a pencil. He turned his back on the others, as if about to do something tricky, and noted stealthily the weights which Carlier shouted out to him with unnecessary loudness. When all was over Makola whispered to himself: �The sun�s very strong here for the tusks.� Carlier said to Kayerts in a careless tone: �I say, chief, I might just as well give him a lift with this lot into the store.� As they were going back to the house Kayerts observed with a sigh: �It had to be done.� And Carlier said: �It�s deplorable, but, the men being Company�s men the ivory is Company�s ivory. We must look after it.� �I will report to the Director, of course,� said Kayerts. �Of course; let him decide,� approved Carlier. At midday they made a hearty meal. Kayerts sighed from time to time. Whenever they mentioned Makola�s name they always added to it an opprobrious epithet. It eased their conscience. Makola gave himself a half-holiday, and bathed his children in the river. No one from Gobila�s villages came near the station that day. No one came the next day, and the next, nor for a whole week. Gobila�s people might have been dead and buried for any sign of life they gave. But they were only mourning for those they had lost by the witchcraft of white men, who had brought wicked people into their country. The wicked people were gone, but fear remained. Fear always remains. A man may destroy everything within himself, love and hate and belief, and even doubt; but as long as he clings to life he cannot destroy fear: the fear, subtle, indestructible, and terrible, that pervades his being; that tinges his thoughts; that lurks in his heart; that watches on his lips the struggle of his last breath. In his fear, the mild old Gobila offered extra human sacrifices to all the Evil Spirits that had taken possession of his white friends. His heart was heavy. Some warriors spoke about burning and killing, but the cautious old savage dissuaded them. Who could foresee the woe those mysterious creatures, if irritated, might bring? They should be left alone. Perhaps in time they would disappear into the earth as the first one had disappeared. His people must keep away from them, and hope for the best. Kayerts and Carlier did not disappear, but remained above on this earth, that, somehow, they fancied had become bigger and very empty. It was not the absolute and dumb solitude of the post that impressed them so much as an inarticulate feeling that something from within them was gone, something that worked for their safety, and had kept the wilderness from interfering with their hearts. The images of home; the memory of people like them, of men that thought and felt as they used to think and feel, receded into distances made indistinct by the glare of unclouded sunshine. And out of the great silence of the surrounding wilderness, its very hopelessness and savagery seemed to approach them nearer, to draw them gently, to look upon them, to envelop them with a solicitude irresistible, familiar, and disgusting. Days lengthened into weeks, then into months. Gobila�s people drummed and yelled to every new moon, as of yore, but kept away from the station. Makola and Carlier tried once in a canoe to open communications, but were received with a shower of arrows, and had to fly back to the station for dear life. That attempt set the country up and down the river into an uproar that could be very distinctly heard for days. The steamer was late. At first they spoke of delay jauntily, then anxiously, then gloomily. The matter was becoming serious. Stores were running short. Carlier cast his lines off the bank, but the river was low, and the fish kept out in the stream. They dared not stroll far away from the station to shoot. Moreover, there was no game in the impenetrable forest. Once Carlier shot a hippo in the river. They had no boat to secure it, and it sank. When it floated up it drifted away, and Gobila�s people secured the carcase. It was the occasion for a national holiday, but Carlier had a fit of rage over it and talked about the necessity of exterminating all the niggers before the country could be made habitable. Kayerts mooned about silently; spent hours looking at the portrait of his Melie. It represented a little girl with long bleached tresses and a rather sour face. His legs were much swollen, and he could hardly walk. Carlier, undermined by fever, could not swagger any more, but kept tottering about, still with a devil-may-care air, as became a man who remembered his crack regiment. He had become hoarse, sarcastic, and inclined to say unpleasant things. He called it �being frank with you.� They had long ago reckoned their percentages on trade, including in them that last deal of �this infamous Makola.� They had also concluded not to say anything about it. Kayerts hesitated at first--was afraid of the Director. �He has seen worse things done on the quiet,� maintained Carlier, with a hoarse laugh. �Trust him! He won�t thank you if you blab. He is no better than you or me. Who will talk if we hold our tongues? There is nobody here.� That was the root of the trouble! There was nobody there; and being left there alone with their weakness, they became daily more like a pair of accomplices than like a couple of devoted friends. They had heard nothing from home for eight months. Every evening they said, �To-morrow we shall see the steamer.� But one of the Company�s steamers had been wrecked, and the Director was busy with the other, relieving very distant and important stations on the main river. He thought that the useless station, and the useless men, could wait. Meantime Kayerts and Carlier lived on rice boiled without salt, and cursed the Company, all Africa, and the day they were born. One must have lived on such diet to discover what ghastly trouble the necessity of swallowing one�s food may become. There was literally nothing else in the station but rice and coffee; they drank the coffee without sugar. The last fifteen lumps Kayerts had solemnly locked away in his box, together with a half-bottle of Cognac, �in case of sickness,� he explained. Carlier approved. �When one is sick,� he said, �any little extra like that is cheering.� They waited. Rank grass began to sprout over the courtyard. The bell never rang now. Days passed, silent, exasperating, and slow. When the two men spoke, they snarled; and their silences were bitter, as if tinged by the bitterness of their thoughts. One day after a lunch of boiled rice, Carlier put down his cup untasted, and said: �Hang it all! Let�s have a decent cup of coffee for once. Bring out that sugar, Kayerts!� �For the sick,� muttered Kayerts, without looking up. �For the sick,� mocked Carlier. �Bosh! . . . Well! I am sick.� �You are no more sick than I am, and I go without,� said Kayerts in a peaceful tone. �Come! out with that sugar, you stingy old slave-dealer.� Kayerts looked up quickly. Carlier was smiling with marked insolence. And suddenly it seemed to Kayerts that he had never seen that man before. Who was he? He knew nothing about him. What was he capable of? There was a surprising flash of violent emotion within him, as if in the presence of something undreamt-of, dangerous, and final. But he managed to pronounce with composure-- �That joke is in very bad taste. Don�t repeat it.� �Joke!� said Carlier, hitching himself forward on his seat. �I am hungry--I am sick--I don�t joke! I hate hypocrites. You are a hypocrite. You are a slave-dealer. I am a slave-dealer. There�s nothing but slave-dealers in this cursed country. I mean to have sugar in my coffee to-day, anyhow!� �I forbid you to speak to me in that way,� said Kayerts with a fair show of resolution. �You!--What?� shouted Carlier, jumping up. Kayerts stood up also. �I am your chief,� he began, trying to master the shakiness of his voice. �What?� yelled the other. �Who�s chief? There�s no chief here. There�s nothing here: there�s nothing but you and I. Fetch the sugar--you pot-bellied ass.� �Hold your tongue. Go out of this room,� screamed Kayerts. �I dismiss you--you scoundrel!� Carlier swung a stool. All at once he looked dangerously in earnest. �You flabby, good-for-nothing civilian--take that!� he howled. Kayerts dropped under the table, and the stool struck the grass inner wall of the room. Then, as Carlier was trying to upset the table, Kayerts in desperation made a blind rush, head low, like a cornered pig would do, and over-turning his friend, bolted along the verandah, and into his room. He locked the door, snatched his revolver, and stood panting. In less than a minute Carlier was kicking at the door furiously, howling, �If you don�t bring out that sugar, I will shoot you at sight, like a dog. Now then--one--two--three. You won�t? I will show you who�s the master.� Kayerts thought the door would fall in, and scrambled through the square hole that served for a window in his room. There was then the whole breadth of the house between them. But the other was apparently not strong enough to break in the door, and Kayerts heard him running round. Then he also began to run laboriously on his swollen legs. He ran as quickly as he could, grasping the revolver, and unable yet to understand what was happening to him. He saw in succession Makola�s house, the store, the river, the ravine, and the low bushes; and he saw all those things again as he ran for the second time round the house. Then again they flashed past him. That morning he could not have walked a yard without a groan. And now he ran. He ran fast enough to keep out of sight of the other man. Then as, weak and desperate, he thought, �Before I finish the next round I shall die,� he heard the other man stumble heavily, then stop. He stopped also. He had the back and Carlier the front of the house, as before. He heard him drop into a chair cursing, and suddenly his own legs gave way, and he slid down into a sitting posture with his back to the wall. His mouth was as dry as a cinder, and his face was wet with perspiration--and tears. What was it all about? He thought it must be a horrible illusion; he thought he was dreaming; he thought he was going mad! After a while he collected his senses. What did they quarrel about? That sugar! How absurd! He would give it to him--didn�t want it himself. And he began scrambling to his feet with a sudden feeling of security. But before he had fairly stood upright, a commonsense reflection occurred to him and drove him back into despair. He thought: �If I give way now to that brute of a soldier, he will begin this horror again to-morrow--and the day after--every day--raise other pretensions, trample on me, torture me, make me his slave--and I will be lost! Lost! The steamer may not come for days--may never come.� He shook so that he had to sit down on the floor again. He shivered forlornly. He felt he could not, would not move any more. He was completely distracted by the sudden perception that the position was without issue--that death and life had in a moment become equally difficult and terrible. All at once he heard the other push his chair back; and he leaped to his feet with extreme facility. He listened and got confused. Must run again! Right or left? He heard footsteps. He darted to the left, grasping his revolver, and at the very same instant, as it seemed to him, they came into violent collision. Both shouted with surprise. A loud explosion took place between them; a roar of red fire, thick smoke; and Kayerts, deafened and blinded, rushed back thinking: �I am hit--it�s all over.� He expected the other to come round--to gloat over his agony. He caught hold of an upright of the roof--�All over!� Then he heard a crashing fall on the other side of the house, as if somebody had tumbled headlong over a chair--then silence. Nothing more happened. He did not die. Only his shoulder felt as if it had been badly wrenched, and he had lost his revolver. He was disarmed and helpless! He waited for his fate. The other man made no sound. It was a stratagem. He was stalking him now! Along what side? Perhaps he was taking aim this very minute! After a few moments of an agony frightful and absurd, he decided to go and meet his doom. He was prepared for every surrender. He turned the corner, steadying himself with one hand on the wall; made a few paces, and nearly swooned. He had seen on the floor, protruding past the other corner, a pair of turned-up feet. A pair of white naked feet in red slippers. He felt deadly sick, and stood for a time in profound darkness. Then Makola appeared before him, saying quietly: �Come along, Mr. Kayerts. He is dead.� He burst into tears of gratitude; a loud, sobbing fit of crying. After a time he found himself sitting in a chair and looking at Carlier, who lay stretched on his back. Makola was kneeling over the body. �Is this your revolver?� asked Makola, getting up. �Yes,� said Kayerts; then he added very quickly, �He ran after me to shoot me--you saw!� �Yes, I saw,� said Makola. �There is only one revolver; where�s his?� �Don�t know,� whispered Kayerts in a voice that had become suddenly very faint. �I will go and look for it,� said the other, gently. He made the round along the verandah, while Kayerts sat still and looked at the corpse. Makola came back empty-handed, stood in deep thought, then stepped quietly into the dead man�s room, and came out directly with a revolver, which he held up before Kayerts. Kayerts shut his eyes. Everything was going round. He found life more terrible and difficult than death. He had shot an unarmed man. After meditating for a while, Makola said softly, pointing at the dead man who lay there with his right eye blown out-- �He died of fever.� Kayerts looked at him with a stony stare. �Yes,� repeated Makola, thoughtfully, stepping over the corpse, �I think he died of fever. Bury him to-morrow.� And he went away slowly to his expectant wife, leaving the two white men alone on the verandah. Night came, and Kayerts sat unmoving on his chair. He sat quiet as if he had taken a dose of opium. The violence of the emotions he had passed through produced a feeling of exhausted serenity. He had plumbed in one short afternoon the depths of horror and despair, and now found repose in the conviction that life had no more secrets for him: neither had death! He sat by the corpse thinking; thinking very actively, thinking very new thoughts. He seemed to have broken loose from himself altogether. His old thoughts, convictions, likes and dislikes, things he respected and things he abhorred, appeared in their true light at last! Appeared contemptible and childish, false and ridiculous. He revelled in his new wisdom while he sat by the man he had killed. He argued with himself about all things under heaven with that kind of wrong-headed lucidity which may be observed in some lunatics. Incidentally he reflected that the fellow dead there had been a noxious beast anyway; that men died every day in thousands; perhaps in hundreds of thousands--who could tell?--and that in the number, that one death could not possibly make any difference; couldn�t have any importance, at least to a thinking creature. He, Kayerts, was a thinking creature. He had been all his life, till that moment, a believer in a lot of nonsense like the rest of mankind--who are fools; but now he thought! He knew! He was at peace; he was familiar with the highest wisdom! Then he tried to imagine himself dead, and Carlier sitting in his chair watching him; and his attempt met with such unexpected success, that in a very few moments he became not at all sure who was dead and who was alive. This extraordinary achievement of his fancy startled him, however, and by a clever and timely effort of mind he saved himself just in time from becoming Carlier. His heart thumped, and he felt hot all over at the thought of that danger. Carlier! What a beastly thing! To compose his now disturbed nerves--and no wonder!--he tried to whistle a little. Then, suddenly, he fell asleep, or thought he had slept; but at any rate there was a fog, and somebody had whistled in the fog. He stood up. The day had come, and a heavy mist had descended upon the land: the mist penetrating, enveloping, and silent; the morning mist of tropical lands; the mist that clings and kills; the mist white and deadly, immaculate and poisonous. He stood up, saw the body, and threw his arms above his head with a cry like that of a man who, waking from a trance, finds himself immured forever in a tomb. �Help! . . . . My God!� A shriek inhuman, vibrating and sudden, pierced like a sharp dart the white shroud of that land of sorrow. Three short, impatient screeches followed, and then, for a time, the fog-wreaths rolled on, undisturbed, through a formidable silence. Then many more shrieks, rapid and piercing, like the yells of some exasperated and ruthless creature, rent the air. Progress was calling to Kayerts from the river. Progress and civilization and all the virtues. Society was calling to its accomplished child to come, to be taken care of, to be instructed, to be judged, to be condemned; it called him to return to that rubbish heap from which he had wandered away, so that justice could be done. Kayerts heard and understood. He stumbled out of the verandah, leaving the other man quite alone for the first time since they had been thrown there together. He groped his way through the fog, calling in his ignorance upon the invisible heaven to undo its work. Makola flitted by in the mist, shouting as he ran-- �Steamer! Steamer! They can�t see. They whistle for the station. I go ring the bell. Go down to the landing, sir. I ring.� He disappeared. Kayerts stood still. He looked upwards; the fog rolled low over his head. He looked round like a man who has lost his way; and he saw a dark smudge, a cross-shaped stain, upon the shifting purity of the mist. As he began to stumble towards it, the station bell rang in a tumultuous peal its answer to the impatient clamour of the steamer. The Managing Director of the Great Civilizing Company (since we know that civilization follows trade) landed first, and incontinently lost sight of the steamer. The fog down by the river was exceedingly dense; above, at the station, the bell rang unceasing and brazen. The Director shouted loudly to the steamer: �There is nobody down to meet us; there may be something wrong, though they are ringing. You had better come, too!� And he began to toil up the steep bank. The captain and the engine-driver of the boat followed behind. As they scrambled up the fog thinned, and they could see their Director a good way ahead. Suddenly they saw him start forward, calling to them over his shoulder:--�Run! Run to the house! I�ve found one of them. Run, look for the other!� He had found one of them! And even he, the man of varied and startling experience, was somewhat discomposed by the manner of this finding. He stood and fumbled in his pockets (for a knife) while he faced Kayerts, who was hanging by a leather strap from the cross. He had evidently climbed the grave, which was high and narrow, and after tying the end of the strap to the arm, had swung himself off. His toes were only a couple of inches above the ground; his arms hung stiffly down; he seemed to be standing rigidly at attention, but with one purple cheek playfully posed on the shoulder. And, irreverently, he was putting out a swollen tongue at his Managing Director. THE RETURN The inner circle train from the City rushed impetuously out of a black hole and pulled up with a discordant, grinding racket in the smirched twilight of a West-End station. A line of doors flew open and a lot of men stepped out headlong. They had high hats, healthy pale faces, dark overcoats and shiny boots; they held in their gloved hands thin umbrellas and hastily folded evening papers that resembled stiff, dirty rags of greenish, pinkish, or whitish colour. Alvan Hervey stepped out with the rest, a smouldering cigar between his teeth. A disregarded little woman in rusty black, with both arms full of parcels, ran along in distress, bolted suddenly into a third-class compartment and the train went on. The slamming of carriage doors burst out sharp and spiteful like a fusillade; an icy draught mingled with acrid fumes swept the whole length of the platform and made a tottering old man, wrapped up to his ears in a woollen comforter, stop short in the moving throng to cough violently over his stick. No one spared him a glance. Alvan Hervey passed through the ticket gate. Between the bare walls of a sordid staircase men clambered rapidly; their backs appeared alike--almost as if they had been wearing a uniform; their indifferent faces were varied but somehow suggested kinship, like the faces of a band of brothers who through prudence, dignity, disgust, or foresight would resolutely ignore each other; and their eyes, quick or slow; their eyes gazing up the dusty steps; their eyes brown, black, gray, blue, had all the same stare, concentrated and empty, satisfied and unthinking. Outside the big doorway of the street they scattered in all directions, walking away fast from one another with the hurried air of men fleeing from something compromising; from familiarity or confidences; from something suspected and concealed--like truth or pestilence. Alvan Hervey hesitated, standing alone in the doorway for a moment; then decided to walk home. He strode firmly. A misty rain settled like silvery dust on clothes, on moustaches; wetted the faces, varnished the flagstones, darkened the walls, dripped from umbrellas. And he moved on in the rain with careless serenity, with the tranquil ease of someone successful and disdainful, very sure of himself--a man with lots of money and friends. He was tall, well set-up, good-looking and healthy; and his clear pale face had under its commonplace refinement that slight tinge of overbearing brutality which is given by the possession of only partly difficult accomplishments; by excelling in games, or in the art of making money; by the easy mastery over animals and over needy men. He was going home much earlier than usual, straight from the City and without calling at his club. He considered himself well connected, well educated and intelligent. Who doesn�t? But his connections, education and intelligence were strictly on a par with those of the men with whom he did business or amused himself. He had married five years ago. At the time all his acquaintances had said he was very much in love; and he had said so himself, frankly, because it is very well understood that every man falls in love once in his life--unless his wife dies, when it may be quite praiseworthy to fall in love again. The girl was healthy, tall, fair, and in his opinion was well connected, well educated and intelligent. She was also intensely bored with her home where, as if packed in a tight box, her individuality--of which she was very conscious--had no play. She strode like a grenadier, was strong and upright like an obelisk, had a beautiful face, a candid brow, pure eyes, and not a thought of her own in her head. He surrendered quickly to all those charms, and she appeared to him so unquestionably of the right sort that he did not hesitate for a moment to declare himself in love. Under the cover of that sacred and poetical fiction he desired her masterfully, for various reasons; but principally for the satisfaction of having his own way. He was very dull and solemn about it--for no earthly reason, unless to conceal his feelings--which is an eminently proper thing to do. Nobody, however, would have been shocked had he neglected that duty, for the feeling he experienced really was a longing--a longing stronger and a little more complex no doubt, but no more reprehensible in its nature than a hungry man�s appetite for his dinner. After their marriage they busied themselves, with marked success, in enlarging the circle of their acquaintance. Thirty people knew them by sight; twenty more with smiling demonstrations tolerated their occasional presence within hospitable thresholds; at least fifty others became aware of their existence. They moved in their enlarged world amongst perfectly delightful men and women who feared emotion, enthusiasm, or failure, more than fire, war, or mortal disease; who tolerated only the commonest formulas of commonest thoughts, and recognized only profitable facts. It was an extremely charming sphere, the abode of all the virtues, where nothing is realized and where all joys and sorrows are cautiously toned down into pleasures and annoyances. In that serene region, then, where noble sentiments are cultivated in sufficient profusion to conceal the pitiless materialism of thoughts and aspirations Alvan Hervey and his wife spent five years of prudent bliss unclouded by any doubt as to the moral propriety of their existence. She, to give her individuality fair play, took up all manner of philanthropic work and became a member of various rescuing and reforming societies patronized or presided over by ladies of title. He took an active interest in politics; and having met quite by chance a literary man--who nevertheless was related to an earl--he was induced to finance a moribund society paper. It was a semi-political, and wholly scandalous publication, redeemed by excessive dulness; and as it was utterly faithless, as it contained no new thought, as it never by any chance had a flash of wit, satire, or indignation in its pages, he judged it respectable enough, at first sight. Afterwards, when it paid, he promptly perceived that upon the whole it was a virtuous undertaking. It paved the way of his ambition; and he enjoyed also the special kind of importance he derived from this connection with what he imagined to be literature. This connection still further enlarged their world. Men who wrote or drew prettily for the public came at times to their house, and his editor came very often. He thought him rather an ass because he had such big front teeth (the proper thing is to have small, even teeth) and wore his hair a trifle longer than most men do. However, some dukes wear their hair long, and the fellow indubitably knew his business. The worst was that his gravity, though perfectly portentous, could not be trusted. He sat, elegant and bulky, in the drawing-room, the head of his stick hovering in front of his big teeth, and talked for hours with a thick-lipped smile (he said nothing that could be considered objectionable and not quite the thing) talked in an unusual manner--not obviously irritatingly. His forehead was too lofty--unusually so--and under it there was a straight nose, lost between the hairless cheeks, that in a smooth curve ran into a chin shaped like the end of a snow-shoe. And in this face that resembled the face of a fat and fiendishly knowing baby there glittered a pair of clever, peering, unbelieving black eyes. He wrote verses too. Rather an ass. But the band of men who trailed at the skirts of his monumental frock-coat seemed to perceive wonderful things in what he said. Alvan Hervey put it down to affectation. Those artist chaps, upon the whole, were so affected. Still, all this was highly proper--very useful to him--and his wife seemed to like it--as if she also had derived some distinct and secret advantage from this intellectual connection. She received her mixed and decorous guests with a kind of tall, ponderous grace, peculiarly her own and which awakened in the mind of intimidated strangers incongruous and improper reminiscences of an elephant, a giraffe, a gazelle; of a gothic tower--of an overgrown angel. Her Thursdays were becoming famous in their world; and their world grew steadily, annexing street after street. It included also Somebody�s Gardens, a Crescent--a couple of Squares. Thus Alvan Hervey and his wife for five prosperous years lived by the side of one another. In time they came to know each other sufficiently well for all the practical purposes of such an existence, but they were no more capable of real intimacy than two animals feeding at the same manger, under the same roof, in a luxurious stable. His longing was appeased and became a habit; and she had her desire--the desire to get away from under the paternal roof, to assert her individuality, to move in her own set (so much smarter than the parental one); to have a home of her own, and her own share of the world�s respect, envy, and applause. They understood each other warily, tacitly, like a pair of cautious conspirators in a profitable plot; because they were both unable to look at a fact, a sentiment, a principle, or a belief otherwise than in the light of their own dignity, of their own glorification, of their own advantage. They skimmed over the surface of life hand in hand, in a pure and frosty atmosphere--like two skilful skaters cutting figures on thick ice for the admiration of the beholders, and disdainfully ignoring the hidden stream, the stream restless and dark; the stream of life, profound and unfrozen. Alvan Hervey turned twice to the left, once to the right, walked along two sides of a square, in the middle of which groups of tame-looking trees stood in respectable captivity behind iron railings, and rang at his door. A parlour-maid opened. A fad of his wife�s, this, to have only women servants. That girl, while she took his hat and overcoat, said something which made him look at his watch. It was five o�clock, and his wife not at home. There was nothing unusual in that. He said, �No; no tea,� and went upstairs. He ascended without footfalls. Brass rods glimmered all up the red carpet. On the first-floor landing a marble woman, decently covered from neck to instep with stone draperies, advanced a row of lifeless toes to the edge of the pedestal, and thrust out blindly a rigid white arm holding a cluster of lights. He had artistic tastes--at home. Heavy curtains caught back, half concealed dark corners. On the rich, stamped paper of the walls hung sketches, water-colours, engravings. His tastes were distinctly artistic. Old church towers peeped above green masses of foliage; the hills were purple, the sands yellow, the seas sunny, the skies blue. A young lady sprawled with dreamy eyes in a moored boat, in company of a lunch basket, a champagne bottle, and an enamoured man in a blazer. Bare-legged boys flirted sweetly with ragged maidens, slept on stone steps, gambolled with dogs. A pathetically lean girl flattened against a blank wall, turned up expiring eyes and tendered a flower for sale; while, near by, the large photographs of some famous and mutilated bas-reliefs seemed to represent a massacre turned into stone. He looked, of course, at nothing, ascended another flight of stairs and went straight into the dressing room. A bronze dragon nailed by the tail to a bracket writhed away from the wall in calm convolutions, and held, between the conventional fury of its jaws, a crude gas flame that resembled a butterfly. The room was empty, of course; but, as he stepped in, it became filled all at once with a stir of many people; because the strips of glass on the doors of wardrobes and his wife�s large pier-glass reflected him from head to foot, and multiplied his image into a crowd of gentlemanly and slavish imitators, who were dressed exactly like himself; had the same restrained and rare gestures; who moved when he moved, stood still with him in an obsequious immobility, and had just such appearances of life and feeling as he thought it dignified and safe for any man to manifest. And like real people who are slaves of common thoughts, that are not even their own, they affected a shadowy independence by the superficial variety of their movements. They moved together with him; but they either advanced to meet him, or walked away from him; they appeared, disappeared; they seemed to dodge behind walnut furniture, to be seen again, far within the polished panes, stepping about distinct and unreal in the convincing illusion of a room. And like the men he respected they could be trusted to do nothing individual, original, or startling--nothing unforeseen and nothing improper. He moved for a time aimlessly in that good company, humming a popular but refined tune, and thinking vaguely of a business letter from abroad, which had to be answered on the morrow with cautious prevarication. Then, as he walked towards a wardrobe, he saw appearing at his back, in the high mirror, the corner of his wife�s dressing-table, and amongst the glitter of silver-mounted objects on it, the square white patch of an envelope. It was such an unusual thing to be seen there that he spun round almost before he realized his surprise; and all the sham men about him pivoted on their heels; all appeared surprised; and all moved rapidly towards envelopes on dressing-tables. He recognized his wife�s handwriting and saw that the envelope was addressed to himself. He muttered, �How very odd,� and felt annoyed. Apart from any odd action being essentially an indecent thing in itself, the fact of his wife indulging in it made it doubly offensive. That she should write to him at all, when she knew he would be home for dinner, was perfectly ridiculous; but that she should leave it like this--in evidence for chance discovery--struck him as so outrageous that, thinking of it, he experienced suddenly a staggering sense of insecurity, an absurd and bizarre flash of a notion that the house had moved a little under his feet. He tore the envelope open, glanced at the letter, and sat down in a chair near by. He held the paper before his eyes and looked at half a dozen lines scrawled on the page, while he was stunned by a noise meaningless and violent, like the clash of gongs or the beating of drums; a great aimless uproar that, in a manner, prevented him from hearing himself think and made his mind an absolute blank. This absurd and distracting tumult seemed to ooze out of the written words, to issue from between his very fingers that trembled, holding the paper. And suddenly he dropped the letter as though it had been something hot, or venomous, or filthy; and rushing to the window with the unreflecting precipitation of a man anxious to raise an alarm of fire or murder, he threw it up and put his head out. A chill gust of wind, wandering through the damp and sooty obscurity over the waste of roofs and chimney-pots, touched his face with a clammy flick. He saw an illimitable darkness, in which stood a black jumble of walls, and, between them, the many rows of gaslights stretched far away in long lines, like strung-up beads of fire. A sinister loom as of a hidden conflagration lit up faintly from below the mist, falling upon a billowy and motionless sea of tiles and bricks. At the rattle of the opened window the world seemed to leap out of the night and confront him, while floating up to his ears there came a sound vast and faint; the deep mutter of something immense and alive. It penetrated him with a feeling of dismay and he gasped silently. From the cab-stand in the square came distinct hoarse voices and a jeering laugh which sounded ominously harsh and cruel. It sounded threatening. He drew his head in, as if before an aimed blow, and flung the window down quickly. He made a few steps, stumbled against a chair, and with a great effort, pulled himself together to lay hold of a certain thought that was whizzing about loose in his head. He got it at last, after more exertion than he expected; he was flushed and puffed a little as though he had been catching it with his hands, but his mental hold on it was weak, so weak that he judged it necessary to repeat it aloud--to hear it spoken firmly--in order to insure a perfect measure of possession. But he was unwilling to hear his own voice--to hear any sound whatever--owing to a vague belief, shaping itself slowly within him, that solitude and silence are the greatest felicities of mankind. The next moment it dawned upon him that they are perfectly unattainable--that faces must be seen, words spoken, thoughts heard. All the words--all the thoughts! He said very distinctly, and looking at the carpet, �She�s gone.� It was terrible--not the fact but the words; the words charged with the shadowy might of a meaning, that seemed to possess the tremendous power to call Fate down upon the earth, like those strange and appalling words that sometimes are heard in sleep. They vibrated round him in a metallic atmosphere, in a space that had the hardness of iron and the resonance of a bell of bronze. Looking down between the toes of his boots he seemed to listen thoughtfully to the receding wave of sound; to the wave spreading out in a widening circle, embracing streets, roofs, church-steeples, fields--and travelling away, widening endlessly, far, very far, where he could not hear--where he could not imagine anything--where . . . �And--with that . . . ass,� he said again without stirring in the least. And there was nothing but humiliation. Nothing else. He could derive no moral solace from any aspect of the situation, which radiated pain only on every side. Pain. What kind of pain? It occurred to him that he ought to be heart-broken; but in an exceedingly short moment he perceived that his suffering was nothing of so trifling and dignified a kind. It was altogether a more serious matter, and partook rather of the nature of those subtle and cruel feelings which are awakened by a kick or a horse-whipping. He felt very sick--physically sick--as though he had bitten through something nauseous. Life, that to a well-ordered mind should be a matter of congratulation, appeared to him, for a second or so, perfectly intolerable. He picked up the paper at his feet, and sat down with the wish to think it out, to understand why his wife--his wife!--should leave him, should throw away respect, comfort, peace, decency, position throw away everything for nothing! He set himself to think out the hidden logic of her action--a mental undertaking fit for the leisure hours of a madhouse, though he couldn�t see it. And he thought of his wife in every relation except the only fundamental one. He thought of her as a well-bred girl, as a wife, as a cultured person, as the mistress of a house, as a lady; but he never for a moment thought of her simply as a woman. Then a fresh wave, a raging wave of humiliation, swept through his mind, and left nothing there but a personal sense of undeserved abasement. Why should he be mixed up with such a horrid exposure! It annihilated all the advantages of his well-ordered past, by a truth effective and unjust like a calumny--and the past was wasted. Its failure was disclosed--a distinct failure, on his part, to see, to guard, to understand. It could not be denied; it could not be explained away, hustled out of sight. He could not sit on it and look solemn. Now--if she had only died! If she had only died! He was driven to envy such a respectable bereavement, and one so perfectly free from any taint of misfortune that even his best friend or his best enemy would not have felt the slightest thrill of exultation. No one would have cared. He sought comfort in clinging to the contemplation of the only fact of life that the resolute efforts of mankind had never failed to disguise in the clatter and glamour of phrases. And nothing lends itself more to lies than death. If she had only died! Certain words would have been said to him in a sad tone, and he, with proper fortitude, would have made appropriate answers. There were precedents for such an occasion. And no one would have cared. If she had only died! The promises, the terrors, the hopes of eternity, are the concern of the corrupt dead; but the obvious sweetness of life belongs to living, healthy men. And life was his concern: that sane and gratifying existence untroubled by too much love or by too much regret. She had interfered with it; she had defaced it. And suddenly it occurred to him he must have been mad to marry. It was too much in the nature of giving yourself away, of wearing--if for a moment--your heart on your sleeve. But every one married. Was all mankind mad! In the shock of that startling thought he looked up, and saw to the left, to the right, in front, men sitting far off in chairs and looking at him with wild eyes--emissaries of a distracted mankind intruding to spy upon his pain and his humiliation. It was not to be borne. He rose quickly, and the others jumped up, too, on all sides. He stood still in the middle of the room as if discouraged by their vigilance. No escape! He felt something akin to despair. Everybody must know. The servants must know to-night. He ground his teeth . . . And he had never noticed, never guessed anything. Every one will know. He thought: �The woman�s a monster, but everybody will think me a fool�; and standing still in the midst of severe walnut-wood furniture, he felt such a tempest of anguish within him that he seemed to see himself rolling on the carpet, beating his head against the wall. He was disgusted with himself, with the loathsome rush of emotion breaking through all the reserves that guarded his manhood. Something unknown, withering and poisonous, had entered his life, passed near him, touched him, and he was deteriorating. He was appalled. What was it? She was gone. Why? His head was ready to burst with the endeavour to understand her act and his subtle horror of it. Everything was changed. Why? Only a woman gone, after all; and yet he had a vision, a vision quick and distinct as a dream: the vision of everything he had thought indestructible and safe in the world crashing down about him, like solid walls do before the fierce breath of a hurricane. He stared, shaking in every limb, while he felt the destructive breath, the mysterious breath, the breath of passion, stir the profound peace of the house. He looked round in fear. Yes. Crime may be forgiven; uncalculating sacrifice, blind trust, burning faith, other follies, may be turned to account; suffering, death itself, may with a grin or a frown be explained away; but passion is the unpardonable and secret infamy of our hearts, a thing to curse, to hide and to deny; a shameless and forlorn thing that tramples upon the smiling promises, that tears off the placid mask, that strips the body of life. And it had come to him! It had laid its unclean hand upon the spotless draperies of his existence, and he had to face it alone with all the world looking on. All the world! And he thought that even the bare suspicion of such an adversary within his house carried with it a taint and a condemnation. He put both his hands out as if to ward off the reproach of a defiling truth; and, instantly, the appalled conclave of unreal men, standing about mutely beyond the clear lustre of mirrors, made at him the same gesture of rejection and horror. He glanced vainly here and there, like a man looking in desperation for a weapon or for a hiding place, and understood at last that he was disarmed and cornered by the enemy that, without any squeamishness, would strike so as to lay open his heart. He could get help nowhere, or even take counsel with himself, because in the sudden shock of her desertion the sentiments which he knew that in fidelity to his bringing up, to his prejudices and his surroundings, he ought to experience, were so mixed up with the novelty of real feelings, of fundamental feelings that know nothing of creed, class, or education, that he was unable to distinguish clearly between what is and what ought to be; between the inexcusable truth and the valid pretences. And he knew instinctively that truth would be of no use to him. Some kind of concealment seemed a necessity because one cannot explain. Of course not! Who would listen? One had simply to be without stain and without reproach to keep one�s place in the forefront of life. He said to himself, �I must get over it the best I can,� and began to walk up and down the room. What next? What ought to be done? He thought: �I will travel--no I won�t. I shall face it out.� And after that resolve he was greatly cheered by the reflection that it would be a mute and an easy part to play, for no one would be likely to converse with him about the abominable conduct of--that woman. He argued to himself that decent people--and he knew no others--did not care to talk about such indelicate affairs. She had gone off--with that unhealthy, fat ass of a journalist. Why? He had been all a husband ought to be. He had given her a good position--she shared his prospects--he had treated her invariably with great consideration. He reviewed his conduct with a kind of dismal pride. It had been irreproachable. Then, why? For love? Profanation! There could be no love there. A shameful impulse of passion. Yes, passion. His own wife! Good God! . . . And the indelicate aspect of his domestic misfortune struck him with such shame that, next moment, he caught himself in the act of pondering absurdly over the notion whether it would not be more dignified for him to induce a general belief that he had been in the habit of beating his wife. Some fellows do . . . and anything would be better than the filthy fact; for it was clear he had lived with the root of it for five years--and it was too shameful. Anything! Anything! Brutality . . . But he gave it up directly, and began to think of the Divorce Court. It did not present itself to him, notwithstanding his respect for law and usage, as a proper refuge for dignified grief. It appeared rather as an unclean and sinister cavern where men and women are haled by adverse fate to writhe ridiculously in the presence of uncompromising truth. It should not be allowed. That woman! Five . . . years . . . married five years . . . and never to see anything. Not to the very last day . . . not till she coolly went off. And he pictured to himself all the people he knew engaged in speculating as to whether all that time he had been blind, foolish, or infatuated. What a woman! Blind! . . . Not at all. Could a clean-minded man imagine such depravity? Evidently not. He drew a free breath. That was the attitude to take; it was dignified enough; it gave him the advantage, and he could not help perceiving that it was moral. He yearned unaffectedly to see morality (in his person) triumphant before the world. As to her she would be forgotten. Let her be forgotten--buried in oblivion--lost! No one would allude . . . Refined people--and every man and woman he knew could be so described--had, of course, a horror of such topics. Had they? Oh, yes. No one would allude to her . . . in his hearing. He stamped his foot, tore the letter across, then again and again. The thought of sympathizing friends excited in him a fury of mistrust. He flung down the small bits of paper. They settled, fluttering at his feet, and looked very white on the dark carpet, like a scattered handful of snow-flakes. This fit of hot anger was succeeded by a sudden sadness, by the darkening passage of a thought that ran over the scorched surface of his heart, like upon a barren plain, and after a fiercer assault of sunrays, the melancholy and cooling shadow of a cloud. He realized that he had had a shock--not a violent or rending blow, that can be seen, resisted, returned, forgotten, but a thrust, insidious and penetrating, that had stirred all those feelings, concealed and cruel, which the arts of the devil, the fears of mankind--God�s infinite compassion, perhaps--keep chained deep down in the inscrutable twilight of our breasts. A dark curtain seemed to rise before him, and for less than a second he looked upon the mysterious universe of moral suffering. As a landscape is seen complete, and vast, and vivid, under a flash of lightning, so he could see disclosed in a moment all the immensity of pain that can be contained in one short moment of human thought. Then the curtain fell again, but his rapid vision left in Alvan Hervey�s mind a trail of invincible sadness, a sense of loss and bitter solitude, as though he had been robbed and exiled. For a moment he ceased to be a member of society with a position, a career, and a name attached to all this, like a descriptive label of some complicated compound. He was a simple human being removed from the delightful world of crescents and squares. He stood alone, naked and afraid, like the first man on the first day of evil. There are in life events, contacts, glimpses, that seem brutally to bring all the past to a close. There is a shock and a crash, as of a gate flung to behind one by the perfidious hand of fate. Go and seek another paradise, fool or sage. There is a moment of dumb dismay, and the wanderings must begin again; the painful explaining away of facts, the feverish raking up of illusions, the cultivation of a fresh crop of lies in the sweat of one�s brow, to sustain life, to make it supportable, to make it fair, so as to hand intact to another generation of blind wanderers the charming legend of a heartless country, of a promised land, all flowers and blessings . . . He came to himself with a slight start, and became aware of an oppressive, crushing desolation. It was only a feeling, it is true, but it produced on him a physical effect, as though his chest had been squeezed in a vice. He perceived himself so extremely forlorn and lamentable, and was moved so deeply by the oppressive sorrow, that another turn of the screw, he felt, would bring tears out of his eyes. He was deteriorating. Five years of life in common had appeased his longing. Yes, long-time ago. The first five months did that--but . . . There was the habit--the habit of her person, of her smile, of her gestures, of her voice, of her silence. She had a pure brow and good hair. How utterly wretched all this was. Good hair and fine eyes--remarkably fine. He was surprised by the number of details that intruded upon his unwilling memory. He could not help remembering her footsteps, the rustle of her dress, her way of holding her head, her decisive manner of saying �Alvan,� the quiver of her nostrils when she was annoyed. All that had been so much his property, so intimately and specially his! He raged in a mournful, silent way, as he took stock of his losses. He was like a man counting the cost of an unlucky speculation--irritated, depressed--exasperated with himself and with others, with the fortunate, with the indifferent, with the callous; yet the wrong done him appeared so cruel that he would perhaps have dropped a tear over that spoliation if it had not been for his conviction that men do not weep. Foreigners do; they also kill sometimes in such circumstances. And to his horror he felt himself driven to regret almost that the usages of a society ready to forgive the shooting of a burglar forbade him, under the circumstances, even as much as a thought of murder. Nevertheless, he clenched his fists and set his teeth hard. And he was afraid at the same time. He was afraid with that penetrating faltering fear that seems, in the very middle of a beat, to turn one�s heart into a handful of dust. The contamination of her crime spread out, tainted the universe, tainted himself; woke up all the dormant infamies of the world; caused a ghastly kind of clairvoyance in which he could see the towns and fields of the earth, its sacred places, its temples and its houses, peopled by monsters--by monsters of duplicity, lust, and murder. She was a monster--he himself was thinking monstrous thoughts . . . and yet he was like other people. How many men and women at this very moment were plunged in abominations--meditated crimes. It was frightful to think of. He remembered all the streets--the well-to-do streets he had passed on his way home; all the innumerable houses with closed doors and curtained windows. Each seemed now an abode of anguish and folly. And his thought, as if appalled, stood still, recalling with dismay the decorous and frightful silence that was like a conspiracy; the grim, impenetrable silence of miles of walls concealing passions, misery, thoughts of crime. Surely he was not the only man; his was not the only house . . . and yet no one knew--no one guessed. But he knew. He knew with unerring certitude that could not be deceived by the correct silence of walls, of closed doors, of curtained windows. He was beside himself with a despairing agitation, like a man informed of a deadly secret--the secret of a calamity threatening the safety of mankind--the sacredness, the peace of life. He caught sight of himself in one of the looking-glasses. It was a relief. The anguish of his feeling had been so powerful that he more than half expected to see some distorted wild face there, and he was pleasantly surprised to see nothing of the kind. His aspect, at any rate, would let no one into the secret of his pain. He examined himself with attention. His trousers were turned up, and his boots a little muddy, but he looked very much as usual. Only his hair was slightly ruffled, and that disorder, somehow, was so suggestive of trouble that he went quickly to the table, and began to use the brushes, in an anxious desire to obliterate the compromising trace, that only vestige of his emotion. He brushed with care, watching the effect of his smoothing; and another face, slightly pale and more tense than was perhaps desirable, peered back at him from the toilet glass. He laid the brushes down, and was not satisfied. He took them up again and brushed, brushed mechanically--forgot himself in that occupation. The tumult of his thoughts ended in a sluggish flow of reflection, such as, after the outburst of a volcano, the almost imperceptible progress of a stream of lava, creeping languidly over a convulsed land and pitilessly obliterating any landmark left by the shock of the earthquake. It is a destructive but, by comparison, it is a peaceful phenomenon. Alvan Hervey was almost soothed by the deliberate pace of his thoughts. His moral landmarks were going one by one, consumed in the fire of his experience, buried in hot mud, in ashes. He was cooling--on the surface; but there was enough heat left somewhere to make him slap the brushes on the table, and turning away, say in a fierce whisper: �I wish him joy . . . Damn the woman.� He felt himself utterly corrupted by her wickedness, and the most significant symptom of his moral downfall was the bitter, acrid satisfaction with which he recognized it. He, deliberately, swore in his thoughts; he meditated sneers; he shaped in profound silence words of cynical unbelief, and his most cherished convictions stood revealed finally as the narrow prejudices of fools. A crowd of shapeless, unclean thoughts crossed his mind in a stealthy rush, like a band of veiled malefactors hastening to a crime. He put his hands deep into his pockets. He heard a faint ringing somewhere, and muttered to himself: �I am not the only one . . . not the only one.� There was another ring. Front door! His heart leaped up into his throat, and forthwith descended as low as his boots. A call! Who? Why? He wanted to rush out on the landing and shout to the servant: �Not at home! Gone away abroad!� . . . Any excuse. He could not face a visitor. Not this evening. No. To-morrow. . . . Before he could break out of the numbness that enveloped him like a sheet of lead, he heard far below, as if in the entrails of the earth, a door close heavily. The house vibrated to it more than to a clap of thunder. He stood still, wishing himself invisible. The room was very chilly. He did not think he would ever feel like that. But people must be met--they must be faced--talked to--smiled at. He heard another door, much nearer--the door of the drawing-room--being opened and flung to again. He imagined for a moment he would faint. How absurd! That kind of thing had to be gone through. A voice spoke. He could not catch the words. Then the voice spoke again, and footsteps were heard on the first floor landing. Hang it all! Was he to hear that voice and those footsteps whenever any one spoke or moved? He thought: �This is like being haunted--I suppose it will last for a week or so, at least. Till I forget. Forget! Forget!� Someone was coming up the second flight of stairs. Servant? He listened, then, suddenly, as though an incredible, frightful revelation had been shouted to him from a distance, he bellowed out in the empty room: �What! What!� in such a fiendish tone as to astonish himself. The footsteps stopped outside the door. He stood openmouthed, maddened and still, as if in the midst of a catastrophe. The door-handle rattled lightly. It seemed to him that the walls were coming apart, that the furniture swayed at him; the ceiling slanted queerly for a moment, a tall wardrobe tried to topple over. He caught hold of something and it was the back of a chair. So he had reeled against a chair! Oh! Confound it! He gripped hard. The flaming butterfly poised between the jaws of the bronze dragon radiated a glare, a glare that seemed to leap up all at once into a crude, blinding fierceness, and made it difficult for him to distinguish plainly the figure of his wife standing upright with her back to the closed door. He looked at her and could not detect her breathing. The harsh and violent light was beating on her, and he was amazed to see her preserve so well the composure of her upright attitude in that scorching brilliance which, to his eyes, enveloped her like a hot and consuming mist. He would not have been surprised if she had vanished in it as suddenly as she had appeared. He stared and listened; listened for some sound, but the silence round him was absolute--as though he had in a moment grown completely deaf as well as dim-eyed. Then his hearing returned, preternaturally sharp. He heard the patter of a rain-shower on the window panes behind the lowered blinds, and below, far below, in the artificial abyss of the square, the deadened roll of wheels and the splashy trotting of a horse. He heard a groan also--very distinct--in the room--close to his ear. He thought with alarm: �I must have made that noise myself;� and at the same instant the woman left the door, stepped firmly across the floor before him, and sat down in a chair. He knew that step. There was no doubt about it. She had come back! And he very nearly said aloud �Of course!�--such was his sudden and masterful perception of the indestructible character of her being. Nothing could destroy her--and nothing but his own destruction could keep her away. She was the incarnation of all the short moments which every man spares out of his life for dreams, for precious dreams that concrete the most cherished, the most profitable of his illusions. He peered at her with inward trepidation. She was mysterious, significant, full of obscure meaning --like a symbol. He peered, bending forward, as though he had been discovering about her things he had never seen before. Unconsciously he made a step towards her--then another. He saw her arm make an ample, decided movement and he stopped. She had lifted her veil. It was like the lifting of a vizor. The spell was broken. He experienced a shock as though he had been called out of a trance by the sudden noise of an explosion. It was even more startling and more distinct; it was an infinitely more intimate change, for he had the sensation of having come into this room only that very moment; of having returned from very far; he was made aware that some essential part of himself had in a flash returned into his body, returned finally from a fierce and lamentable region, from the dwelling-place of unveiled hearts. He woke up to an amazing infinity of contempt, to a droll bitterness of wonder, to a disenchanted conviction of safety. He had a glimpse of the irresistible force, and he saw also the barrenness of his convictions--of her convictions. It seemed to him that he could never make a mistake as long as he lived. It was morally impossible to go wrong. He was not elated by that certitude; he was dimly uneasy about its price; there was a chill as of death in this triumph of sound principles, in this victory snatched under the very shadow of disaster. The last trace of his previous state of mind vanished, as the instantaneous and elusive trail of a bursting meteor vanishes on the profound blackness of the sky; it was the faint flicker of a painful thought, gone as soon as perceived, that nothing but her presence--after all--had the power to recall him to himself. He stared at her. She sat with her hands on her lap, looking down; and he noticed that her boots were dirty, her skirts wet and splashed, as though she had been driven back there by a blind fear through a waste of mud. He was indignant, amazed and shocked, but in a natural, healthy way now; so that he could control those unprofitable sentiments by the dictates of cautious self-restraint. The light in the room had no unusual brilliance now; it was a good light in which he could easily observe the expression of her face. It was that of dull fatigue. And the silence that surrounded them was the normal silence of any quiet house, hardly disturbed by the faint noises of a respectable quarter of the town. He was very cool--and it was quite coolly that he thought how much better it would be if neither of them ever spoke again. She sat with closed lips, with an air of lassitude in the stony forgetfulness of her pose, but after a moment she lifted her drooping eyelids and met his tense and inquisitive stare by a look that had all the formless eloquence of a cry. It penetrated, it stirred without informing; it was the very essence of anguish stripped of words that can be smiled at, argued away, shouted down, disdained. It was anguish naked and unashamed, the bare pain of existence let loose upon the world in the fleeting unreserve of a look that had in it an immensity of fatigue, the scornful sincerity, the black impudence of an extorted confession. Alvan Hervey was seized with wonder, as though he had seen something inconceivable; and some obscure part of his being was ready to exclaim with him: �I would never have believed it!� but an instantaneous revulsion of wounded susceptibilities checked the unfinished thought. He felt full of rancorous indignation against the woman who could look like this at one. This look probed him; it tampered with him. It was dangerous to one as would be a hint of unbelief whispered by a priest in the august decorum of a temple; and at the same time it was impure, it was disturbing, like a cynical consolation muttered in the dark, tainting the sorrow, corroding the thought, poisoning the heart. He wanted to ask her furiously: �Who do you take me for? How dare you look at me like this?� He felt himself helpless before the hidden meaning of that look; he resented it with pained and futile violence as an injury so secret that it could never, never be redressed. His wish was to crush her by a single sentence. He was stainless. Opinion was on his side; morality, men and gods were on his side; law, conscience--all the world! She had nothing but that look. And he could only say: �How long do you intend to stay here?� Her eyes did not waver, her lips remained closed; and for any effect of his words he might have spoken to a dead woman, only that this one breathed quickly. He was profoundly disappointed by what he had said. It was a great deception, something in the nature of treason. He had deceived himself. It should have been altogether different--other words--another sensation. And before his eyes, so fixed that at times they saw nothing, she sat apparently as unconscious as though she had been alone, sending that look of brazen confession straight at him--with an air of staring into empty space. He said significantly: �Must I go then?� And he knew he meant nothing of what he implied. One of her hands on her lap moved slightly as though his words had fallen there and she had thrown them off on the floor. But her silence encouraged him. Possibly it meant remorse--perhaps fear. Was she thunderstruck by his attitude? . . . Her eyelids dropped. He seemed to understand ever so much--everything! Very well--but she must be made to suffer. It was due to him. He understood everything, yet he judged it indispensable to say with an obvious affectation of civility: �I don�t understand--be so good as to . . .� She stood up. For a second he believed she intended to go away, and it was as though someone had jerked a string attached to his heart. It hurt. He remained open-mouthed and silent. But she made an irresolute step towards him, and instinctively he moved aside. They stood before one another, and the fragments of the torn letter lay between them--at their feet--like an insurmountable obstacle, like a sign of eternal separation! Around them three other couples stood still and face to face, as if waiting for a signal to begin some action--a struggle, a dispute, or a dance. She said: �Don�t--Alvan!� and there was something that resembled a warning in the pain of her tone. He narrowed his eyes as if trying to pierce her with his gaze. Her voice touched him. He had aspirations after magnanimity, generosity, superiority--interrupted, however, by flashes of indignation and anxiety--frightful anxiety to know how far she had gone. She looked down at the torn paper. Then she looked up, and their eyes met again, remained fastened together, like an unbreakable bond, like a clasp of eternal complicity; and the decorous silence, the pervading quietude of the house which enveloped this meeting of their glances became for a moment inexpressibly vile, for he was afraid she would say too much and make magnanimity impossible, while behind the profound mournfulness of her face there was a regret--a regret of things done--the regret of delay--the thought that if she had only turned back a week sooner--a day sooner--only an hour sooner. . . . They were afraid to hear again the sound of their voices; they did not know what they might say--perhaps something that could not be recalled; and words are more terrible than facts. But the tricky fatality that lurks in obscure impulses spoke through Alvan Hervey�s lips suddenly; and he heard his own voice with the excited and sceptical curiosity with which one listens to actors� voices speaking on the stage in the strain of a poignant situation. �If you have forgotten anything . . . of course . . . I . . .� Her eyes blazed at him for an instant; her lips trembled--and then she also became the mouth-piece of the mysterious force forever hovering near us; of that perverse inspiration, wandering capricious and uncontrollable, like a gust of wind. �What is the good of this, Alvan? . . . You know why I came back. . . . You know that I could not . . .� He interrupted her with irritation. �Then! what�s this?� he asked, pointing downwards at the torn letter. �That�s a mistake,� she said hurriedly, in a muffled voice. This answer amazed him. He remained speechless, staring at her. He had half a mind to burst into a laugh. It ended in a smile as involuntary as a grimace of pain. �A mistake . . .� he began, slowly, and then found himself unable to say another word. �Yes . . . it was honest,� she said very low, as if speaking to the memory of a feeling in a remote past. He exploded. �Curse your honesty! . . . Is there any honesty in all this! . . . When did you begin to be honest? Why are you here? What are you now? . . . Still honest? . . .� He walked at her, raging, as if blind; during these three quick strides he lost touch of the material world and was whirled interminably through a kind of empty universe made up of nothing but fury and anguish, till he came suddenly upon her face--very close to his. He stopped short, and all at once seemed to remember something heard ages ago. �You don�t know the meaning of the word,� he shouted. She did not flinch. He perceived with fear that everything around him was still. She did not move a hair�s breadth; his own body did not stir. An imperturbable calm enveloped their two motionless figures, the house, the town, all the world--and the trifling tempest of his feelings. The violence of the short tumult within him had been such as could well have shattered all creation; and yet nothing was changed. He faced his wife in the familiar room in his own house. It had not fallen. And right and left all the innumerable dwellings, standing shoulder to shoulder, had resisted the shock of his passion, had presented, unmoved, to the loneliness of his trouble, the grim silence of walls, the impenetrable and polished discretion of closed doors and curtained windows. Immobility and silence pressed on him, assailed him, like two accomplices of the immovable and mute woman before his eyes. He was suddenly vanquished. He was shown his impotence. He was soothed by the breath of a corrupt resignation coming to him through the subtle irony of the surrounding peace. He said with villainous composure: �At any rate it isn�t enough for me. I want to know more--if you�re going to stay.� �There is nothing more to tell,� she answered, sadly. It struck him as so very true that he did not say anything. She went on: �You wouldn�t understand. . . .� �No?� he said, quietly. He held himself tight not to burst into howls and imprecations. �I tried to be faithful . . .� she began again. �And this?� he exclaimed, pointing at the fragments of her letter. �This--this is a failure,� she said. �I should think so,� he muttered, bitterly. �I tried to be faithful to myself--Alvan--and . . . and honest to you. . . .� �If you had tried to be faithful to me it would have been more to the purpose,� he interrupted, angrily. �I�ve been faithful to you and you have spoiled my life--both our lives . . .� Then after a pause the unconquerable preoccupation of self came out, and he raised his voice to ask resentfully, �And, pray, for how long have you been making a fool of me?� She seemed horribly shocked by that question. He did not wait for an answer, but went on moving about all the time; now and then coming up to her, then wandering off restlessly to the other end of the room. �I want to know. Everybody knows, I suppose, but myself--and that�s your honesty!� �I have told you there is nothing to know,� she said, speaking unsteadily as if in pain. �Nothing of what you suppose. You don�t understand me. This letter is the beginning--and the end.� �The end--this thing has no end,� he clamoured, unexpectedly. �Can�t you understand that? I can . . . The beginning . . .� He stopped and looked into her eyes with concentrated intensity, with a desire to see, to penetrate, to understand, that made him positively hold his breath till he gasped. �By Heavens!� he said, standing perfectly still in a peering attitude and within less than a foot from her. �By Heavens!� he repeated, slowly, and in a tone whose involuntary strangeness was a complete mystery to himself. �By Heavens--I could believe you--I could believe anything--now!� He turned short on his heel and began to walk up and down the room with an air of having disburdened himself of the final pronouncement of his life--of having said something on which he would not go back, even if he could. She remained as if rooted to the carpet. Her eyes followed the restless movements of the man, who avoided looking at her. Her wide stare clung to him, inquiring, wondering and doubtful. �But the fellow was forever sticking in here,� he burst out, distractedly. �He made love to you, I suppose--and, and . . .� He lowered his voice. �And--you let him.� �And I let him,� she murmured, catching his intonation, so that her voice sounded unconscious, sounded far off and slavish, like an echo. He said twice, �You! You!� violently, then calmed down. �What could you see in the fellow?� he asked, with unaffected wonder. �An effeminate, fat ass. What could you . . . Weren�t you happy? Didn�t you have all you wanted? Now--frankly; did I deceive your expectations in any way? Were you disappointed with our position--or with our prospects--perhaps? You know you couldn�t be--they are much better than you could hope for when you married me. . . .� He forgot himself so far as to gesticulate a little while he went on with animation: �What could you expect from such a fellow? He�s an outsider--a rank outsider. . . . If it hadn�t been for my money . . . do you hear? . . . for my money, he wouldn�t know where to turn. His people won�t have anything to do with him. The fellow�s no class--no class at all. He�s useful, certainly, that�s why I . . . I thought you had enough intelligence to see it. . . . And you . . . No! It�s incredible! What did he tell you? Do you care for no one�s opinion--is there no restraining influence in the world for you--women? Did you ever give me a thought? I tried to be a good husband. Did I fail? Tell me--what have I done?� Carried away by his feelings he took his head in both his hands and repeated wildly: �What have I done? . . . Tell me! What? . . .� �Nothing,� she said. �Ah! You see . . . you can�t . . .� he began, triumphantly, walking away; then suddenly, as though he had been flung back at her by something invisible he had met, he spun round and shouted with exasperation: �What on earth did you expect me to do?� Without a word she moved slowly towards the table, and, sitting down, leaned on her elbow, shading her eyes with her hand. All that time he glared at her watchfully as if expecting every moment to find in her deliberate movements an answer to his question. But he could not read anything, he could gather no hint of her thought. He tried to suppress his desire to shout, and after waiting awhile, said with incisive scorn: �Did you want me to write absurd verses; to sit and look at you for hours--to talk to you about your soul? You ought to have known I wasn�t that sort. . . . I had something better to do. But if you think I was totally blind . . .� He perceived in a flash that he could remember an infinity of enlightening occurrences. He could recall ever so many distinct occasions when he came upon them; he remembered the absurdly interrupted gesture of his fat, white hand, the rapt expression of her face, the glitter of unbelieving eyes; snatches of incomprehensible conversations not worth listening to, silences that had meant nothing at the time and seemed now illuminating like a burst of sunshine. He remembered all that. He had not been blind. Oh! No! And to know this was an exquisite relief: it brought back all his composure. �I thought it beneath me to suspect you,� he said, loftily. The sound of that sentence evidently possessed some magical power, because, as soon as he had spoken, he felt wonderfully at ease; and directly afterwards he experienced a flash of joyful amazement at the discovery that he could be inspired to such noble and truthful utterance. He watched the effect of his words. They caused her to glance to him quickly over her shoulder. He caught a glimpse of wet eyelashes, of a red cheek with a tear running down swiftly; and then she turned away again and sat as before, covering her face with her hands. �You ought to be perfectly frank with me,� he said, slowly. �You know everything,� she answered, indistinctly, through her fingers. �This letter. . . . Yes . . . but . . .� �And I came back,� she exclaimed in a stifled voice; �you know everything.� �I am glad of it--for your sake,� he said with impressive gravity. He listened to himself with solemn emotion. It seemed to him that something inexpressibly momentous was in progress within the room, that every word and every gesture had the importance of events preordained from the beginning of all things, and summing up in their finality the whole purpose of creation. �For your sake,� he repeated. Her shoulders shook as though she had been sobbing, and he forgot himself in the contemplation of her hair. Suddenly he gave a start, as if waking up, and asked very gently and not much above a whisper-- �Have you been meeting him often?� �Never!� she cried into the palms of her hands. This answer seemed for a moment to take from him the power of speech. His lips moved for some time before any sound came. �You preferred to make love here--under my very nose,� he said, furiously. He calmed down instantly, and felt regretfully uneasy, as though he had let himself down in her estimation by that outburst. She rose, and with her hand on the back of the chair confronted him with eyes that were perfectly dry now. There was a red spot on each of her cheeks. �When I made up my mind to go to him--I wrote,� she said. �But you didn�t go to him,� he took up in the same tone. �How far did you go? What made you come back?� �I didn�t know myself,� she murmured. Nothing of her moved but her lips. He fixed her sternly. �Did he expect this? Was he waiting for you?� he asked. She answered him by an almost imperceptible nod, and he continued to look at her for a good while without making a sound. Then, at last-- �And I suppose he is waiting yet?� he asked, quickly. Again she seemed to nod at him. For some reason he felt he must know the time. He consulted his watch gloomily. Half-past seven. �Is he?� he muttered, putting the watch in his pocket. He looked up at her, and, as if suddenly overcome by a sense of sinister fun, gave a short, harsh laugh, directly repressed. �No! It�s the most unheard! . . .� he mumbled while she stood before him biting her lower lip, as if plunged in deep thought. He laughed again in one low burst that was as spiteful as an imprecation. He did not know why he felt such an overpowering and sudden distaste for the facts of existence--for facts in general--such an immense disgust at the thought of all the many days already lived through. He was wearied. Thinking seemed a labour beyond his strength. He said-- �You deceived me--now you make a fool of him . . . It�s awful! Why?� �I deceived myself!� she exclaimed. �Oh! Nonsense!� he said, impatiently. �I am ready to go if you wish it,� she went on, quickly. �It was due to you--to be told--to know. No! I could not!� she cried, and stood still wringing her hands stealthily. �I am glad you repented before it was too late,� he said in a dull tone and looking at his boots. �I am glad . . . some spark of better feeling,� he muttered, as if to himself. He lifted up his head after a moment of brooding silence. �I am glad to see that there is some sense of decency left in you,� he added a little louder. Looking at her he appeared to hesitate, as if estimating the possible consequences of what he wished to say, and at last blurted out-- �After all, I loved you. . . .� �I did not know,� she whispered. �Good God!� he cried. �Why do you imagine I married you?� The indelicacy of his obtuseness angered her. �Ah--why?� she said through her teeth. He appeared overcome with horror, and watched her lips intently as though in fear. �I imagined many things,� she said, slowly, and paused. He watched, holding his breath. At last she went on musingly, as if thinking aloud, �I tried to understand. I tried honestly. . . . Why? . . . To do the usual thing--I suppose. . . . To please yourself.� He walked away smartly, and when he came back, close to her, he had a flushed face. �You seemed pretty well pleased, too--at the time,� he hissed, with scathing fury. �I needn�t ask whether you loved me.� �I know now I was perfectly incapable of such a thing,� she said, calmly, �If I had, perhaps you would not have married me.� �It�s very clear I would not have done it if I had known you--as I know you now.� He seemed to see himself proposing to her--ages ago. They were strolling up the slope of a lawn. Groups of people were scattered in sunshine. The shadows of leafy boughs lay still on the short grass. The coloured sunshades far off, passing between trees, resembled deliberate and brilliant butterflies moving without a flutter. Men smiling amiably, or else very grave, within the impeccable shelter of their black coats, stood by the side of women who, clustered in clear summer toilettes, recalled all the fabulous tales of enchanted gardens where animated flowers smile at bewitched knights. There was a sumptuous serenity in it all, a thin, vibrating excitement, the perfect security, as of an invincible ignorance, that evoked within him a transcendent belief in felicity as the lot of all mankind, a recklessly picturesque desire to get promptly something for himself only, out of that splendour unmarred by any shadow of a thought. The girl walked by his side across an open space; no one was near, and suddenly he stood still, as if inspired, and spoke. He remembered looking at her pure eyes, at her candid brow; he remembered glancing about quickly to see if they were being observed, and thinking that nothing could go wrong in a world of so much charm, purity, and distinction. He was proud of it. He was one of its makers, of its possessors, of its guardians, of its extollers. He wanted to grasp it solidly, to get as much gratification as he could out of it; and in view of its incomparable quality, of its unstained atmosphere, of its nearness to the heaven of its choice, this gust of brutal desire seemed the most noble of aspirations. In a second he lived again through all these moments, and then all the pathos of his failure presented itself to him with such vividness that there was a suspicion of tears in his tone when he said almost unthinkingly, �My God! I did love you!� She seemed touched by the emotion of his voice. Her lips quivered a little, and she made one faltering step towards him, putting out her hands in a beseeching gesture, when she perceived, just in time, that being absorbed by the tragedy of his life he had absolutely forgotten her very existence. She stopped, and her outstretched arms fell slowly. He, with his features distorted by the bitterness of his thought, saw neither her movement nor her gesture. He stamped his foot in vexation, rubbed his head--then exploded. �What the devil am I to do now?� He was still again. She seemed to understand, and moved to the door firmly. �It�s very simple--I�m going,� she said aloud. At the sound of her voice he gave a start of surprise, looked at her wildly, and asked in a piercing tone-- �You. . . . Where? To him?� �No--alone--good-bye.� The door-handle rattled under her groping hand as though she had been trying to get out of some dark place. �No--stay!� he cried. She heard him faintly. He saw her shoulder touch the lintel of the door. She swayed as if dazed. There was less than a second of suspense while they both felt as if poised on the very edge of moral annihilation, ready to fall into some devouring nowhere. Then, almost simultaneously, he shouted, �Come back!� and she let go the handle of the door. She turned round in peaceful desperation like one who deliberately has thrown away the last chance of life; and, for a moment, the room she faced appeared terrible, and dark, and safe--like a grave. He said, very hoarse and abrupt: �It can�t end like this. . . . Sit down;� and while she crossed the room again to the low-backed chair before the dressing-table, he opened the door and put his head out to look and listen. The house was quiet. He came back pacified, and asked-- �Do you speak the truth?� She nodded. �You have lived a lie, though,� he said, suspiciously. �Ah! You made it so easy,� she answered. �You reproach me--me!� �How could I?� she said; �I would have you no other--now.� �What do you mean by . . .� he began, then checked himself, and without waiting for an answer went on, �I won�t ask any questions. Is this letter the worst of it?� She had a nervous movement of her hands. �I must have a plain answer,� he said, hotly. �Then, no! The worst is my coming back.� There followed a period of dead silence, during which they exchanged searching glances. He said authoritatively-- �You don�t know what you are saying. Your mind is unhinged. You are beside yourself, or you would not say such things. You can�t control yourself. Even in your remorse . . .� He paused a moment, then said with a doctoral air: �Self-restraint is everything in life, you know. It�s happiness, it�s dignity . . . it�s everything.� She was pulling nervously at her handkerchief while he went on watching anxiously to see the effect of his words. Nothing satisfactory happened. Only, as he began to speak again, she covered her face with both her hands. �You see where the want of self-restraint leads to. Pain--humiliation--loss of respect--of friends, of everything that ennobles life, that . . . All kinds of horrors,� he concluded, abruptly. She made no stir. He looked at her pensively for some time as though he had been concentrating the melancholy thoughts evoked by the sight of that abased woman. His eyes became fixed and dull. He was profoundly penetrated by the solemnity of the moment; he felt deeply the greatness of the occasion. And more than ever the walls of his house seemed to enclose the sacredness of ideals to which he was about to offer a magnificent sacrifice. He was the high priest of that temple, the severe guardian of formulas, of rites, of the pure ceremonial concealing the black doubts of life. And he was not alone. Other men, too--the best of them--kept watch and ward by the hearthstones that were the altars of that profitable persuasion. He understood confusedly that he was part of an immense and beneficent power, which had a reward ready for every discretion. He dwelt within the invincible wisdom of silence; he was protected by an indestructible faith that would last forever, that would withstand unshaken all the assaults--the loud execrations of apostates, and the secret weariness of its confessors! He was in league with a universe of untold advantages. He represented the moral strength of a beautiful reticence that could vanquish all the deplorable crudities of life--fear, disaster, sin--even death itself. It seemed to him he was on the point of sweeping triumphantly away all the illusory mysteries of existence. It was simplicity itself. �I hope you see now the folly--the utter folly of wickedness,� he began in a dull, solemn manner. �You must respect the conditions of your life or lose all it can give you. All! Everything!� He waved his arm once, and three exact replicas of his face, of his clothes, of his dull severity, of his solemn grief, repeated the wide gesture that in its comprehensive sweep indicated an infinity of moral sweetness, embraced the walls, the hangings, the whole house, all the crowd of houses outside, all the flimsy and inscrutable graves of the living, with their doors numbered like the doors of prison-cells, and as impenetrable as the granite of tombstones. �Yes! Restraint, duty, fidelity--unswerving fidelity to what is expected of you. This--only this--secures the reward, the peace. Everything else we should labour to subdue--to destroy. It�s misfortune; it�s disease. It is terrible--terrible. We must not know anything about it--we needn�t. It is our duty to ourselves--to others. You do not live all alone in the world--and if you have no respect for the dignity of life, others have. Life is a serious matter. If you don�t conform to the highest standards you are no one--it�s a kind of death. Didn�t this occur to you? You�ve only to look round you to see the truth of what I am saying. Did you live without noticing anything, without understanding anything? From a child you had examples before your eyes--you could see daily the beauty, the blessings of morality, of principles. . . .� His voice rose and fell pompously in a strange chant. His eyes were still, his stare exalted and sullen; his face was set, was hard, was woodenly exulting over the grim inspiration that secretly possessed him, seethed within him, lifted him up into a stealthy frenzy of belief. Now and then he would stretch out his right arm over her head, as it were, and he spoke down at that sinner from a height, and with a sense of avenging virtue, with a profound and pure joy as though he could from his steep pinnacle see every weighty word strike and hurt like a punishing stone. �Rigid principles--adherence to what is right,� he finished after a pause. �What is right?� she said, distinctly, without uncovering her face. �Your mind is diseased!� he cried, upright and austere. �Such a question is rot--utter rot. Look round you--there�s your answer, if you only care to see. Nothing that outrages the received beliefs can be right. Your conscience tells you that. They are the received beliefs because they are the best, the noblest, the only possible. They survive. . . .� He could not help noticing with pleasure the philosophic breadth of his view, but he could not pause to enjoy it, for his inspiration, the call of august truth, carried him on. �You must respect the moral foundations of a society that has made you what you are. Be true to it. That�s duty--that�s honour--that�s honesty.� He felt a great glow within him, as though he had swallowed something hot. He made a step nearer. She sat up and looked at him with an ardour of expectation that stimulated his sense of the supreme importance of that moment. And as if forgetting himself he raised his voice very much. ��What�s right?� you ask me. Think only. What would you have been if you had gone off with that infernal vagabond? . . . What would you have been? . . . You! My wife! . . .� He caught sight of himself in the pier glass, drawn up to his full height, and with a face so white that his eyes, at the distance, resembled the black cavities in a skull. He saw himself as if about to launch imprecations, with arms uplifted above her bowed head. He was ashamed of that unseemly posture, and put his hands in his pockets hurriedly. She murmured faintly, as if to herself-- �Ah! What am I now?� �As it happens you are still Mrs. Alvan Hervey--uncommonly lucky for you, let me tell you,� he said in a conversational tone. He walked up to the furthest corner of the room, and, turning back, saw her sitting very upright, her hands clasped on her lap, and with a lost, unswerving gaze of her eyes which stared unwinking like the eyes of the blind, at the crude gas flame, blazing and still, between the jaws of the bronze dragon. He came up quite close to her, and straddling his legs a little, stood looking down at her face for some time without taking his hands out of his pockets. He seemed to be turning over in his mind a heap of words, piecing his next speech out of an overpowering abundance of thoughts. �You�ve tried me to the utmost,� he said at last; and as soon as he said these words he lost his moral footing, and felt himself swept away from his pinnacle by a flood of passionate resentment against the bungling creature that had come so near to spoiling his life. �Yes; I�ve been tried more than any man ought to be,� he went on with righteous bitterness. �It was unfair. What possessed you to? . . . What possessed you? . . . Write such a . . . After five years of perfect happiness! �Pon my word, no one would believe. . . . Didn�t you feel you couldn�t? Because you couldn�t . . . it was impossible--you know. Wasn�t it? Think. Wasn�t it?� �It was impossible,� she whispered, obediently. This submissive assent given with such readiness did not soothe him, did not elate him; it gave him, inexplicably, that sense of terror we experience when in the midst of conditions we had learned to think absolutely safe we discover all at once the presence of a near and unsuspected danger. It was impossible, of course! He knew it. She knew it. She confessed it. It was impossible! That man knew it, too--as well as any one; couldn�t help knowing it. And yet those two had been engaged in a conspiracy against his peace--in a criminal enterprise for which there could be no sanction of belief within themselves. There could not be! There could not be! And yet how near to . . . With a short thrill he saw himself an exiled forlorn figure in a realm of ungovernable, of unrestrained folly. Nothing could be foreseen, foretold--guarded against. And the sensation was intolerable, had something of the withering horror that may be conceived as following upon the utter extinction of all hope. In the flash of thought the dishonouring episode seemed to disengage itself from everything actual, from earthly conditions, and even from earthly suffering; it became purely a terrifying knowledge, an annihilating knowledge of a blind and infernal force. Something desperate and vague, a flicker of an insane desire to abase himself before the mysterious impulses of evil, to ask for mercy in some way, passed through his mind; and then came the idea, the persuasion, the certitude, that the evil must be forgotten--must be resolutely ignored to make life possible; that the knowledge must be kept out of mind, out of sight, like the knowledge of certain death is kept out of the daily existence of men. He stiffened himself inwardly for the effort, and next moment it appeared very easy, amazingly feasible, if one only kept strictly to facts, gave one�s mind to their perplexities and not to their meaning. Becoming conscious of a long silence, he cleared his throat warningly, and said in a steady voice-- �I am glad you feel this . . . uncommonly glad . . . you felt this in time. For, don�t you see . . .� Unexpectedly he hesitated. �Yes . . . I see,� she murmured. �Of course you would,� he said, looking at the carpet and speaking like one who thinks of something else. He lifted his head. �I cannot believe--even after this--even after this--that you are altogether--altogether . . . other than what I thought you. It seems impossible--to me.� �And to me,� she breathed out. �Now--yes,� he said, �but this morning? And to-morrow? . . . This is what . . .� He started at the drift of his words and broke off abruptly. Every train of thought seemed to lead into the hopeless realm of ungovernable folly, to recall the knowledge and the terror of forces that must be ignored. He said rapidly-- �My position is very painful--difficult . . . I feel . . .� He looked at her fixedly with a pained air, as though frightfully oppressed by a sudden inability to express his pent-up ideas. �I am ready to go,� she said very low. �I have forfeited everything . . . to learn . . . to learn . . .� Her chin fell on her breast; her voice died out in a sigh. He made a slight gesture of impatient assent. �Yes! Yes! It�s all very well . . . of course. Forfeited--ah! Morally forfeited--only morally forfeited . . . if I am to believe you . . .� She startled him by jumping up. �Oh! I believe, I believe,� he said, hastily, and she sat down as suddenly as she had got up. He went on gloomily-- �I�ve suffered--I suffer now. You can�t understand how much. So much that when you propose a parting I almost think. . . . But no. There is duty. You�ve forgotten it; I never did. Before heaven, I never did. But in a horrid exposure like this the judgment of mankind goes astray--at least for a time. You see, you and I--at least I feel that--you and I are one before the world. It is as it should be. The world is right--in the main--or else it couldn�t be--couldn�t be--what it is. And we are part of it. We have our duty to--to our fellow beings who don�t want to . . . to . . . er.� He stammered. She looked up at him with wide eyes, and her lips were slightly parted. He went on mumbling-- �. . . Pain. . . . Indignation. . . . Sure to misunderstand. I�ve suffered enough. And if there has been nothing irreparable--as you assure me . . . then . . .� �Alvan!� she cried. �What?� he said, morosely. He gazed down at her for a moment with a sombre stare, as one looks at ruins, at the devastation of some natural disaster. �Then,� he continued after a short pause, �the best thing is . . . the best for us . . . for every one. . . . Yes . . . least pain--most unselfish. . . .� His voice faltered, and she heard only detached words. �. . . Duty. . . . Burden. . . . Ourselves. . . . Silence.� A moment of perfect stillness ensued. �This is an appeal I am making to your conscience,� he said, suddenly, in an explanatory tone, �not to add to the wretchedness of all this: to try loyally and help me to live it down somehow. Without any reservations--you know. Loyally! You can�t deny I�ve been cruelly wronged and--after all--my affection deserves . . .� He paused with evident anxiety to hear her speak. �I make no reservations,� she said, mournfully. �How could I? I found myself out and came back to . . .� her eyes flashed scornfully for an instant �. . . to what--to what you propose. You see . . . I . . . I can be trusted . . . now.� He listened to every word with profound attention, and when she ceased seemed to wait for more. �Is that all you�ve got to say?� he asked. She was startled by his tone, and said faintly-- �I spoke the truth. What more can I say?� �Confound it! You might say something human,� he burst out. �It isn�t being truthful; it�s being brazen--if you want to know. Not a word to show you feel your position, and--and mine. Not a single word of acknowledgment, or regret--or remorse . . . or . . . something.� �Words!� she whispered in a tone that irritated him. He stamped his foot. �This is awful!� he exclaimed. �Words? Yes, words. Words mean something--yes--they do--for all this infernal affectation. They mean something to me--to everybody--to you. What the devil did you use to express those sentiments--sentiments--pah!--which made you forget me, duty, shame!� . . . He foamed at the mouth while she stared at him, appalled by this sudden fury. �Did you two talk only with your eyes?� he spluttered savagely. She rose. �I can�t bear this,� she said, trembling from head to foot. �I am going.� They stood facing one another for a moment. �Not you,� he said, with conscious roughness, and began to walk up and down the room. She remained very still with an air of listening anxiously to her own heart-beats, then sank down on the chair slowly, and sighed, as if giving up a task beyond her strength. �You misunderstand everything I say,� he began quietly, �but I prefer to think that--just now--you are not accountable for your actions.� He stopped again before her. �Your mind is unhinged,� he said, with unction. �To go now would be adding crime--yes, crime--to folly. I�ll have no scandal in my life, no matter what�s the cost. And why? You are sure to misunderstand me--but I�ll tell you. As a matter of duty. Yes. But you�re sure to misunderstand me--recklessly. Women always do--they are too--too narrow-minded.� He waited for a while, but she made no sound, didn�t even look at him; he felt uneasy, painfully uneasy, like a man who suspects he is unreasonably mistrusted. To combat that exasperating sensation he recommenced talking very fast. The sound of his words excited his thoughts, and in the play of darting thoughts he had glimpses now and then of the inexpugnable rock of his convictions, towering in solitary grandeur above the unprofitable waste of errors and passions. �For it is self-evident,� he went on with anxious vivacity, �it is self-evident that, on the highest ground we haven�t the right--no, we haven�t the right to intrude our miseries upon those who--who naturally expect better things from us. Every one wishes his own life and the life around him to be beautiful and pure. Now, a scandal amongst people of our position is disastrous for the morality--a fatal influence--don�t you see--upon the general tone of the class--very important--the most important, I verily believe, in--in the community. I feel this--profoundly. This is the broad view. In time you�ll give me . . . when you become again the woman I loved--and trusted. . . .� He stopped short, as though unexpectedly suffocated, then in a completely changed voice said, �For I did love and trust you�--and again was silent for a moment. She put her handkerchief to her eyes. �You�ll give me credit for--for--my motives. It�s mainly loyalty to--to the larger conditions of our life--where you--you! of all women--failed. One doesn�t usually talk like this--of course--but in this case you�ll admit . . . And consider--the innocent suffer with the guilty. The world is pitiless in its judgments. Unfortunately there are always those in it who are only too eager to misunderstand. Before you and before my conscience I am guiltless, but any--any disclosure would impair my usefulness in the sphere--in the larger sphere in which I hope soon to . . . I believe you fully shared my views in that matter--I don�t want to say any more . . . on--on that point--but, believe me, true unselfishness is to bear one�s burdens in--in silence. The ideal must--must be preserved--for others, at least. It�s clear as daylight. If I�ve a--a loathsome sore, to gratuitously display it would be abominable--abominable! And often in life--in the highest conception of life--outspokenness in certain circumstances is nothing less than criminal. Temptation, you know, excuses no one. There is no such thing really if one looks steadily to one�s welfare--which is grounded in duty. But there are the weak.� . . . His tone became ferocious for an instant . . . �And there are the fools and the envious--especially for people in our position. I am guiltless of this terrible--terrible . . . estrangement; but if there has been nothing irreparable.� . . . Something gloomy, like a deep shadow passed over his face. . . . �Nothing irreparable--you see even now I am ready to trust you implicitly--then our duty is clear.� He looked down. A change came over his expression and straightway from the outward impetus of his loquacity he passed into the dull contemplation of all the appeasing truths that, not without some wonder, he had so recently been able to discover within himself. During this profound and soothing communion with his innermost beliefs he remained staring at the carpet, with a portentously solemn face and with a dull vacuity of eyes that seemed to gaze into the blankness of an empty hole. Then, without stirring in the least, he continued: �Yes. Perfectly clear. I�ve been tried to the utmost, and I can�t pretend that, for a time, the old feelings--the old feelings are not. . . .� He sighed. . . . �But I forgive you. . . .� She made a slight movement without uncovering her eyes. In his profound scrutiny of the carpet he noticed nothing. And there was silence, silence within and silence without, as though his words had stilled the beat and tremor of all the surrounding life, and the house had stood alone--the only dwelling upon a deserted earth. He lifted his head and repeated solemnly: �I forgive you . . . from a sense of duty--and in the hope . . .� He heard a laugh, and it not only interrupted his words but also destroyed the peace of his self-absorption with the vile pain of a reality intruding upon the beauty of a dream. He couldn�t understand whence the sound came. He could see, foreshortened, the tear-stained, dolorous face of the woman stretched out, and with her head thrown over the back of the seat. He thought the piercing noise was a delusion. But another shrill peal followed by a deep sob and succeeded by another shriek of mirth positively seemed to tear him out from where he stood. He bounded to the door. It was closed. He turned the key and thought: that�s no good. . . . �Stop this!� he cried, and perceived with alarm that he could hardly hear his own voice in the midst of her screaming. He darted back with the idea of stifling that unbearable noise with his hands, but stood still distracted, finding himself as unable to touch her as though she had been on fire. He shouted, �Enough of this!� like men shout in the tumult of a riot, with a red face and starting eyes; then, as if swept away before another burst of laughter, he disappeared in a flash out of three looking-glasses, vanished suddenly from before her. For a time the woman gasped and laughed at no one in the luminous stillness of the empty room. He reappeared, striding at her, and with a tumbler of water in his hand. He stammered: �Hysterics--Stop--They will hear--Drink this.� She laughed at the ceiling. �Stop this!� he cried. �Ah!� He flung the water in her face, putting into the action all the secret brutality of his spite, yet still felt that it would have been perfectly excusable--in any one--to send the tumbler after the water. He restrained himself, but at the same time was so convinced nothing could stop the horror of those mad shrieks that, when the first sensation of relief came, it did not even occur to him to doubt the impression of having become suddenly deaf. When, next moment, he became sure that she was sitting up, and really very quiet, it was as though everything--men, things, sensations, had come to a rest. He was prepared to be grateful. He could not take his eyes off her, fearing, yet unwilling to admit, the possibility of her beginning again; for, the experience, however contemptuously he tried to think of it, had left the bewilderment of a mysterious terror. Her face was streaming with water and tears; there was a wisp of hair on her forehead, another stuck to her cheek; her hat was on one side, undecorously tilted; her soaked veil resembled a sordid rag festooning her forehead. There was an utter unreserve in her aspect, an abandonment of safeguards, that ugliness of truth which can only be kept out of daily life by unremitting care for appearances. He did not know why, looking at her, he thought suddenly of to-morrow, and why the thought called out a deep feeling of unutterable, discouraged weariness--a fear of facing the succession of days. To-morrow! It was as far as yesterday. Ages elapsed between sunrises--sometimes. He scanned her features like one looks at a forgotten country. They were not distorted--he recognized landmarks, so to speak; but it was only a resemblance that he could see, not the woman of yesterday--or was it, perhaps, more than the woman of yesterday? Who could tell? Was it something new? A new expression--or a new shade of expression? or something deep--an old truth unveiled, a fundamental and hidden truth--some unnecessary, accursed certitude? He became aware that he was trembling very much, that he had an empty tumbler in his hand--that time was passing. Still looking at her with lingering mistrust he reached towards the table to put the glass down and was startled to feel it apparently go through the wood. He had missed the edge. The surprise, the slight jingling noise of the accident annoyed him beyond expression. He turned to her irritated. �What�s the meaning of this?� he asked, grimly. She passed her hand over her face and made an attempt to get up. �You�re not going to be absurd again,� he said. ��Pon my soul, I did not know you could forget yourself to that extent.� He didn�t try to conceal his physical disgust, because he believed it to be a purely moral reprobation of every unreserve, of anything in the nature of a scene. �I assure you--it was revolting,� he went on. He stared for a moment at her. �Positively degrading,� he added with insistence. She stood up quickly as if moved by a spring and tottered. He started forward instinctively. She caught hold of the back of the chair and steadied herself. This arrested him, and they faced each other wide-eyed, uncertain, and yet coming back slowly to the reality of things with relief and wonder, as though just awakened after tossing through a long night of fevered dreams. �Pray, don�t begin again,� he said, hurriedly, seeing her open her lips. �I deserve some little consideration--and such unaccountable behaviour is painful to me. I expect better things. . . . I have the right. . . .� She pressed both her hands to her temples. �Oh, nonsense!� he said, sharply. �You are perfectly capable of coming down to dinner. No one should even suspect; not even the servants. No one! No one! . . . I am sure you can.� She dropped her arms; her face twitched. She looked straight into his eyes and seemed incapable of pronouncing a word. He frowned at her. �I--wish--it,� he said, tyrannically. �For your own sake also. . . .� He meant to carry that point without any pity. Why didn�t she speak? He feared passive resistance. She must. . . . Make her come. His frown deepened, and he began to think of some effectual violence, when most unexpectedly she said in a firm voice, �Yes, I can,� and clutched the chair-back again. He was relieved, and all at once her attitude ceased to interest him. The important thing was that their life would begin again with an every-day act--with something that could not be misunderstood, that, thank God, had no moral meaning, no perplexity--and yet was symbolic of their uninterrupted communion in the past--in all the future. That morning, at that table, they had breakfast together; and now they would dine. It was all over! What had happened between could be forgotten--must be forgotten, like things that can only happen once--death for instance. �I will wait for you,� he said, going to the door. He had some difficulty with it, for he did not remember he had turned the key. He hated that delay, and his checked impatience to be gone out of the room made him feel quite ill as, with the consciousness of her presence behind his back, he fumbled at the lock. He managed it at last; then in the doorway he glanced over his shoulder to say, �It�s rather late--you know--� and saw her standing where he had left her, with a face white as alabaster and perfectly still, like a woman in a trance. He was afraid she would keep him waiting, but without any breathing time, he hardly knew how, he found himself sitting at table with her. He had made up his mind to eat, to talk, to be natural. It seemed to him necessary that deception should begin at home. The servants must not know--must not suspect. This intense desire of secrecy; of secrecy dark, destroying, profound, discreet like a grave, possessed him with the strength of a hallucination--seemed to spread itself to inanimate objects that had been the daily companions of his life, affected with a taint of enmity every single thing within the faithful walls that would stand forever between the shamelessness of facts and the indignation of mankind. Even when--as it happened once or twice--both the servants left the room together he remained carefully natural, industriously hungry, laboriously at his ease, as though he had wanted to cheat the black oak sideboard, the heavy curtains, the stiff-backed chairs, into the belief of an unstained happiness. He was mistrustful of his wife�s self-control, unwilling to look at her and reluctant to speak, for it seemed to him inconceivable that she should not betray herself by the slightest movement, by the very first word spoken. Then he thought the silence in the room was becoming dangerous, and so excessive as to produce the effect of an intolerable uproar. He wanted to end it, as one is anxious to interrupt an indiscreet confession; but with the memory of that laugh upstairs he dared not give her an occasion to open her lips. Presently he heard her voice pronouncing in a calm tone some unimportant remark. He detached his eyes from the centre of his plate and felt excited as if on the point of looking at a wonder. And nothing could be more wonderful than her composure. He was looking at the candid eyes, at the pure brow, at what he had seen every evening for years in that place; he listened to the voice that for five years he had heard every day. Perhaps she was a little pale--but a healthy pallor had always been for him one of her chief attractions. Perhaps her face was rigidly set--but that marmoreal impassiveness, that magnificent stolidity, as of a wonderful statue by some great sculptor working under the curse of the gods; that imposing, unthinking stillness of her features, had till then mirrored for him the tranquil dignity of a soul of which he had thought himself--as a matter of course--the inexpugnable possessor. Those were the outward signs of her difference from the ignoble herd that feels, suffers, fails, errs--but has no distinct value in the world except as a moral contrast to the prosperity of the elect. He had been proud of her appearance. It had the perfectly proper frankness of perfection--and now he was shocked to see it unchanged. She looked like this, spoke like this, exactly like this, a year ago, a month ago--only yesterday when she. . . . What went on within made no difference. What did she think? What meant the pallor, the placid face, the candid brow, the pure eyes? What did she think during all these years? What did she think yesterday--to-day; what would she think to-morrow? He must find out. . . . And yet how could he get to know? She had been false to him, to that man, to herself; she was ready to be false--for him. Always false. She looked lies, breathed lies, lived lies--would tell lies--always--to the end of life! And he would never know what she meant. Never! Never! No one could. Impossible to know. He dropped his knife and fork, brusquely, as though by the virtue of a sudden illumination he had been made aware of poison in his plate, and became positive in his mind that he could never swallow another morsel of food as long as he lived. The dinner went on in a room that had been steadily growing, from some cause, hotter than a furnace. He had to drink. He drank time after time, and, at last, recollecting himself, was frightened at the quantity, till he perceived that what he had been drinking was water--out of two different wine glasses; and the discovered unconsciousness of his actions affected him painfully. He was disturbed to find himself in such an unhealthy state of mind. Excess of feeling--excess of feeling; and it was part of his creed that any excess of feeling was unhealthy--morally unprofitable; a taint on practical manhood. Her fault. Entirely her fault. Her sinful self-forgetfulness was contagious. It made him think thoughts he had never had before; thoughts disintegrating, tormenting, sapping to the very core of life--like mortal disease; thoughts that bred the fear of air, of sunshine, of men--like the whispered news of a pestilence. The maids served without noise; and to avoid looking at his wife and looking within himself, he followed with his eyes first one and then the other without being able to distinguish between them. They moved silently about, without one being able to see by what means, for their skirts touched the carpet all round; they glided here and there, receded, approached, rigid in black and white, with precise gestures, and no life in their faces, like a pair of marionettes in mourning; and their air of wooden unconcern struck him as unnatural, suspicious, irremediably hostile. That such people�s feelings or judgment could affect one in any way, had never occurred to him before. He understood they had no prospects, no principles--no refinement and no power. But now he had become so debased that he could not even attempt to disguise from himself his yearning to know the secret thoughts of his servants. Several times he looked up covertly at the faces of those girls. Impossible to know. They changed his plates and utterly ignored his existence. What impenetrable duplicity. Women--nothing but women round him. Impossible to know. He experienced that heart-probing, fiery sense of dangerous loneliness, which sometimes assails the courage of a solitary adventurer in an unexplored country. The sight of a man�s face--he felt--of any man�s face, would have been a profound relief. One would know then--something--could understand. . . . He would engage a butler as soon as possible. And then the end of that dinner--which had seemed to have been going on for hours--the end came, taking him violently by surprise, as though he had expected in the natural course of events to sit at that table for ever and ever. But upstairs in the drawing-room he became the victim of a restless fate, that would, on no account, permit him to sit down. She had sunk on a low easy-chair, and taking up from a small table at her elbow a fan with ivory leaves, shaded her face from the fire. The coals glowed without a flame; and upon the red glow the vertical bars of the grate stood out at her feet, black and curved, like the charred ribs of a consumed sacrifice. Far off, a lamp perched on a slim brass rod, burned under a wide shade of crimson silk: the centre, within the shadows of the large room, of a fiery twilight that had in the warm quality of its tint something delicate, refined and infernal. His soft footfalls and the subdued beat of the clock on the high mantel-piece answered each other regularly--as if time and himself, engaged in a measured contest, had been pacing together through the infernal delicacy of twilight towards a mysterious goal. He walked from one end of the room to the other without a pause, like a traveller who, at night, hastens doggedly upon an interminable journey. Now and then he glanced at her. Impossible to know. The gross precision of that thought expressed to his practical mind something illimitable and infinitely profound, the all-embracing subtlety of a feeling, the eternal origin of his pain. This woman had accepted him, had abandoned him--had returned to him. And of all this he would never know the truth. Never. Not till death--not after--not on judgment day when all shall be disclosed, thoughts and deeds, rewards and punishments, but the secret of hearts alone shall return, forever unknown, to the Inscrutable Creator of good and evil, to the Master of doubts and impulses. He stood still to look at her. Thrown back and with her face turned away from him, she did not stir--as if asleep. What did she think? What did she feel? And in the presence of her perfect stillness, in the breathless silence, he felt himself insignificant and powerless before her, like a prisoner in chains. The fury of his impotence called out sinister images, that faculty of tormenting vision, which in a moment of anguishing sense of wrong induces a man to mutter threats or make a menacing gesture in the solitude of an empty room. But the gust of passion passed at once, left him trembling a little, with the wondering, reflective fear of a man who has paused on the very verge of suicide. The serenity of truth and the peace of death can be only secured through a largeness of contempt embracing all the profitable servitudes of life. He found he did not want to know. Better not. It was all over. It was as if it hadn�t been. And it was very necessary for both of them, it was morally right, that nobody should know. He spoke suddenly, as if concluding a discussion. �The best thing for us is to forget all this.� She started a little and shut the fan with a click. �Yes, forgive--and forget,� he repeated, as if to himself. �I�ll never forget,� she said in a vibrating voice. �And I�ll never forgive myself. . . .� �But I, who have nothing to reproach myself . . .� He began, making a step towards her. She jumped up. �I did not come back for your forgiveness,� she exclaimed, passionately, as if clamouring against an unjust aspersion. He only said �oh!� and became silent. He could not understand this unprovoked aggressiveness of her attitude, and certainly was very far from thinking that an unpremeditated hint of something resembling emotion in the tone of his last words had caused that uncontrollable burst of sincerity. It completed his bewilderment, but he was not at all angry now. He was as if benumbed by the fascination of the incomprehensible. She stood before him, tall and indistinct, like a black phantom in the red twilight. At last poignantly uncertain as to what would happen if he opened his lips, he muttered: �But if my love is strong enough . . .� and hesitated. He heard something snap loudly in the fiery stillness. She had broken her fan. Two thin pieces of ivory fell, one after another, without a sound, on the thick carpet, and instinctively he stooped to pick them up. While he groped at her feet it occurred to him that the woman there had in her hands an indispensable gift which nothing else on earth could give; and when he stood up he was penetrated by an irresistible belief in an enigma, by the conviction that within his reach and passing away from him was the very secret of existence--its certitude, immaterial and precious! She moved to the door, and he followed at her elbow, casting about for a magic word that would make the enigma clear, that would compel the surrender of the gift. And there is no such word! The enigma is only made clear by sacrifice, and the gift of heaven is in the hands of every man. But they had lived in a world that abhors enigmas, and cares for no gifts but such as can be obtained in the street. She was nearing the door. He said hurriedly: ��Pon my word, I loved you--I love you now.� She stopped for an almost imperceptible moment to give him an indignant glance, and then moved on. That feminine penetration--so clever and so tainted by the eternal instinct of self-defence, so ready to see an obvious evil in everything it cannot understand--filled her with bitter resentment against both the men who could offer to the spiritual and tragic strife of her feelings nothing but the coarseness of their abominable materialism. In her anger against her own ineffectual self-deception she found hate enough for them both. What did they want? What more did this one want? And as her husband faced her again, with his hand on the door-handle, she asked herself whether he was unpardonably stupid, or simply ignoble. She said nervously, and very fast: �You are deceiving yourself. You never loved me. You wanted a wife--some woman--any woman that would think, speak, and behave in a certain way--in a way you approved. You loved yourself.� �You won�t believe me?� he asked, slowly. �If I had believed you loved me,� she began, passionately, then drew in a long breath; and during that pause he heard the steady beat of blood in his ears. �If I had believed it . . . I would never have come back,� she finished, recklessly. He stood looking down as though he had not heard. She waited. After a moment he opened the door, and, on the landing, the sightless woman of marble appeared, draped to the chin, thrusting blindly at them a cluster of lights. He seemed to have forgotten himself in a meditation so deep that on the point of going out she stopped to look at him in surprise. While she had been speaking he had wandered on the track of the enigma, out of the world of senses into the region of feeling. What did it matter what she had done, what she had said, if through the pain of her acts and words he had obtained the word of the enigma! There can be no life without faith and love--faith in a human heart, love of a human being! That touch of grace, whose help once in life is the privilege of the most undeserving, flung open for him the portals of beyond, and in contemplating there the certitude immaterial and precious he forgot all the meaningless accidents of existence: the bliss of getting, the delight of enjoying; all the protean and enticing forms of the cupidity that rules a material world of foolish joys, of contemptible sorrows. Faith!--Love!--the undoubting, clear faith in the truth of a soul--the great tenderness, deep as the ocean, serene and eternal, like the infinite peace of space above the short tempests of the earth. It was what he had wanted all his life--but he understood it only then for the first time. It was through the pain of losing her that the knowledge had come. She had the gift! She had the gift! And in all the world she was the only human being that could surrender it to his immense desire. He made a step forward, putting his arms out, as if to take her to his breast, and, lifting his head, was met by such a look of blank consternation that his arms fell as though they had been struck down by a blow. She started away from him, stumbled over the threshold, and once on the landing turned, swift and crouching. The train of her gown swished as it flew round her feet. It was an undisguised panic. She panted, showing her teeth, and the hate of strength, the disdain of weakness, the eternal preoccupation of sex came out like a toy demon out of a box. �This is odious,� she screamed. He did not stir; but her look, her agitated movements, the sound of her voice were like a mist of facts thickening between him and the vision of love and faith. It vanished; and looking at that face triumphant and scornful, at that white face, stealthy and unexpected, as if discovered staring from an ambush, he was coming back slowly to the world of senses. His first clear thought was: I am married to that woman; and the next: she will give nothing but what I see. He felt the need not to see. But the memory of the vision, the memory that abides forever within the seer made him say to her with the naive austerity of a convert awed by the touch of a new creed, �You haven�t the gift.� He turned his back on her, leaving her completely mystified. And she went upstairs slowly, struggling with a distasteful suspicion of having been confronted by something more subtle than herself--more profound than the misunderstood and tragic contest of her feelings. He shut the door of the drawing-room and moved at hazard, alone amongst the heavy shadows and in the fiery twilight as of an elegant place of perdition. She hadn�t the gift--no one had. . . . He stepped on a book that had fallen off one of the crowded little tables. He picked up the slender volume, and holding it, approached the crimson-shaded lamp. The fiery tint deepened on the cover, and contorted gold letters sprawling all over it in an intricate maze, came out, gleaming redly. �Thorns and Arabesques.� He read it twice, �Thorns and Ar . . . . . . . .� The other�s book of verses. He dropped it at his feet, but did not feel the slightest pang of jealousy or indignation. What did he know? . . . What? . . . The mass of hot coals tumbled down in the grate, and he turned to look at them . . . Ah! That one was ready to give up everything he had for that woman--who did not come--who had not the faith, the love, the courage to come. What did that man expect, what did he hope, what did he want? The woman--or the certitude immaterial and precious! The first unselfish thought he had ever given to any human being was for that man who had tried to do him a terrible wrong. He was not angry. He was saddened by an impersonal sorrow, by a vast melancholy as of all mankind longing for what cannot be attained. He felt his fellowship with every man--even with that man--especially with that man. What did he think now? Had he ceased to wait--and hope? Would he ever cease to wait and hope? Would he understand that the woman, who had no courage, had not the gift--had not the gift! The clock began to strike, and the deep-toned vibration filled the room as though with the sound of an enormous bell tolling far away. He counted the strokes. Twelve. Another day had begun. To-morrow had come; the mysterious and lying to-morrow that lures men, disdainful of love and faith, on and on through the poignant futilities of life to the fitting reward of a grave. He counted the strokes, and gazing at the grate seemed to wait for more. Then, as if called out, left the room, walking firmly. When outside he heard footsteps in the hall and stood still. A bolt was shot--then another. They were locking up--shutting out his desire and his deception from the indignant criticism of a world full of noble gifts for those who proclaim themselves without stain and without reproach. He was safe; and on all sides of his dwelling servile fears and servile hopes slept, dreaming of success, behind the severe discretion of doors as impenetrable to the truth within as the granite of tombstones. A lock snapped--a short chain rattled. Nobody shall know! Why was this assurance of safety heavier than a burden of fear, and why the day that began presented itself obstinately like the last day of all--like a to-day without a to-morrow? Yet nothing was changed, for nobody would know; and all would go on as before--the getting, the enjoying, the blessing of hunger that is appeased every day; the noble incentives of unappeasable ambitions. All--all the blessings of life. All--but the certitude immaterial and precious--the certitude of love and faith. He believed the shadow of it had been with him as long as he could remember; that invisible presence had ruled his life. And now the shadow had appeared and faded he could not extinguish his longing for the truth of its substance. His desire of it was naive; it was masterful like the material aspirations that are the groundwork of existence, but, unlike these, it was unconquerable. It was the subtle despotism of an idea that suffers no rivals, that is lonely, inconsolable, and dangerous. He went slowly up the stairs. Nobody shall know. The days would go on and he would go far--very far. If the idea could not be mastered, fortune could be, man could be--the whole world. He was dazzled by the greatness of the prospect; the brutality of a practical instinct shouted to him that only that which could be had was worth having. He lingered on the steps. The lights were out in the hall, and a small yellow flame flitted about down there. He felt a sudden contempt for himself which braced him up. He went on, but at the door of their room and with his arm advanced to open it, he faltered. On the flight of stairs below the head of the girl who had been locking up appeared. His arm fell. He thought, �I�ll wait till she is gone�--and stepped back within the perpendicular folds of a portiere. He saw her come up gradually, as if ascending from a well. At every step the feeble flame of the candle swayed before her tired, young face, and the darkness of the hall seemed to cling to her black skirt, followed her, rising like a silent flood, as though the great night of the world had broken through the discreet reserve of walls, of closed doors, of curtained windows. It rose over the steps, it leaped up the walls like an angry wave, it flowed over the blue skies, over the yellow sands, over the sunshine of landscapes, and over the pretty pathos of ragged innocence and of meek starvation. It swallowed up the delicious idyll in a boat and the mutilated immortality of famous bas-reliefs. It flowed from outside--it rose higher, in a destructive silence. And, above it, the woman of marble, composed and blind on the high pedestal, seemed to ward off the devouring night with a cluster of lights. He watched the rising tide of impenetrable gloom with impatience, as if anxious for the coming of a darkness black enough to conceal a shameful surrender. It came nearer. The cluster of lights went out. The girl ascended facing him. Behind her the shadow of a colossal woman danced lightly on the wall. He held his breath while she passed by, noiseless and with heavy eyelids. And on her track the flowing tide of a tenebrous sea filled the house, seemed to swirl about his feet, and rising unchecked, closed silently above his head. The time had come but he did not open the door. All was still; and instead of surrendering to the reasonable exigencies of life he stepped out, with a rebelling heart, into the darkness of the house. It was the abode of an impenetrable night; as though indeed the last day had come and gone, leaving him alone in a darkness that has no to-morrow. And looming vaguely below the woman of marble, livid and still like a patient phantom, held out in the night a cluster of extinguished lights. His obedient thought traced for him the image of an uninterrupted life, the dignity and the advantages of an uninterrupted success; while his rebellious heart beat violently within his breast, as if maddened by the desire of a certitude immaterial and precious--the certitude of love and faith. What of the night within his dwelling if outside he could find the sunshine in which men sow, in which men reap! Nobody would know. The days, the years would pass, and . . . He remembered that he had loved her. The years would pass . . . And then he thought of her as we think of the dead--in a tender immensity of regret, in a passionate longing for the return of idealized perfections. He had loved her--he had loved her--and he never knew the truth . . . The years would pass in the anguish of doubt . . . He remembered her smile, her eyes, her voice, her silence, as though he had lost her forever. The years would pass and he would always mistrust her smile, suspect her eyes; he would always misbelieve her voice, he would never have faith in her silence. She had no gift--she had no gift! What was she? Who was she? . . . The years would pass; the memory of this hour would grow faint--and she would share the material serenity of an unblemished life. She had no love and no faith for any one. To give her your thought, your belief, was like whispering your confession over the edge of the world. Nothing came back--not even an echo. In the pain of that thought was born his conscience; not that fear of remorse which grows slowly, and slowly decays amongst the complicated facts of life, but a Divine wisdom springing full-grown, armed and severe out of a tried heart, to combat the secret baseness of motives. It came to him in a flash that morality is not a method of happiness. The revelation was terrible. He saw at once that nothing of what he knew mattered in the least. The acts of men and women, success, humiliation, dignity, failure--nothing mattered. It was not a question of more or less pain, of this joy, of that sorrow. It was a question of truth or falsehood--it was a question of life or death. He stood in the revealing night--in the darkness that tries the hearts, in the night useless for the work of men, but in which their gaze, undazzled by the sunshine of covetous days, wanders sometimes as far as the stars. The perfect stillness around him had something solemn in it, but he felt it was the lying solemnity of a temple devoted to the rites of a debasing persuasion. The silence within the discreet walls was eloquent of safety but it appeared to him exciting and sinister, like the discretion of a profitable infamy; it was the prudent peace of a den of coiners--of a house of ill-fame! The years would pass--and nobody would know. Never! Not till death--not after . . . �Never!� he said aloud to the revealing night. And he hesitated. The secret of hearts, too terrible for the timid eyes of men, shall return, veiled forever, to the Inscrutable Creator of good and evil, to the Master of doubts and impulses. His conscience was born--he heard its voice, and he hesitated, ignoring the strength within, the fateful power, the secret of his heart! It was an awful sacrifice to cast all one�s life into the flame of a new belief. He wanted help against himself, against the cruel decree of salvation. The need of tacit complicity, where it had never failed him, the habit of years affirmed itself. Perhaps she would help . . . He flung the door open and rushed in like a fugitive. He was in the middle of the room before he could see anything but the dazzling brilliance of the light; and then, as if detached and floating in it on the level of his eyes, appeared the head of a woman. She had jumped up when he burst into the room. For a moment they contemplated each other as if struck dumb with amazement. Her hair streaming on her shoulders glinted like burnished gold. He looked into the unfathomable candour of her eyes. Nothing within--nothing--nothing. He stammered distractedly. �I want . . . I want . . . to . . . to . . . know . . .� On the candid light of the eyes flitted shadows; shadows of doubt, of suspicion, the ready suspicion of an unquenchable antagonism, the pitiless mistrust of an eternal instinct of defence; the hate, the profound, frightened hate of an incomprehensible--of an abominable emotion intruding its coarse materialism upon the spiritual and tragic contest of her feelings. �Alvan . . . I won�t bear this . . .� She began to pant suddenly, �I�ve a right--a right to--to--myself . . .� He lifted one arm, and appeared so menacing that she stopped in a fright and shrank back a little. He stood with uplifted hand . . . The years would pass--and he would have to live with that unfathomable candour where flit shadows of suspicions and hate . . . The years would pass--and he would never know--never trust . . . The years would pass without faith and love. . . . �Can you stand it?� he shouted, as though she could have heard all his thoughts. He looked menacing. She thought of violence, of danger--and, just for an instant, she doubted whether there were splendours enough on earth to pay the price of such a brutal experience. He cried again: �Can you stand it?� and glared as if insane. Her eyes blazed, too. She could not hear the appalling clamour of his thoughts. She suspected in him a sudden regret, a fresh fit of jealousy, a dishonest desire of evasion. She shouted back angrily-- �Yes!� He was shaken where he stood as if by a struggle to break out of invisible bonds. She trembled from head to foot. �Well, I can�t!� He flung both his arms out, as if to push her away, and strode from the room. The door swung to with a click. She made three quick steps towards it and stood still, looking at the white and gold panels. No sound came from beyond, not a whisper, not a sigh; not even a footstep was heard outside on the thick carpet. It was as though no sooner gone he had suddenly expired--as though he had died there and his body had vanished on the instant together with his soul. She listened, with parted lips and irresolute eyes. Then below, far below her, as if in the entrails of the earth, a door slammed heavily; and the quiet house vibrated to it from roof to foundations, more than to a clap of thunder. He never returned. THE LAGOON The white man, leaning with both arms over the roof of the little house in the stern of the boat, said to the steersman-- �We will pass the night in Arsat�s clearing. It is late.� The Malay only grunted, and went on looking fixedly at the river. The white man rested his chin on his crossed arms and gazed at the wake of the boat. At the end of the straight avenue of forests cut by the intense glitter of the river, the sun appeared unclouded and dazzling, poised low over the water that shone smoothly like a band of metal. The forests, sombre and dull, stood motionless and silent on each side of the broad stream. At the foot of big, towering trees, trunkless nipa palms rose from the mud of the bank, in bunches of leaves enormous and heavy, that hung unstirring over the brown swirl of eddies. In the stillness of the air every tree, every leaf, every bough, every tendril of creeper and every petal of minute blossoms seemed to have been bewitched into an immobility perfect and final. Nothing moved on the river but the eight paddles that rose flashing regularly, dipped together with a single splash; while the steersman swept right and left with a periodic and sudden flourish of his blade describing a glinting semicircle above his head. The churned-up water frothed alongside with a confused murmur. And the white man�s canoe, advancing upstream in the short-lived disturbance of its own making, seemed to enter the portals of a land from which the very memory of motion had forever departed. The white man, turning his back upon the setting sun, looked along the empty and broad expanse of the sea-reach. For the last three miles of its course the wandering, hesitating river, as if enticed irresistibly by the freedom of an open horizon, flows straight into the sea, flows straight to the east--to the east that harbours both light and darkness. Astern of the boat the repeated call of some bird, a cry discordant and feeble, skipped along over the smooth water and lost itself, before it could reach the other shore, in the breathless silence of the world. The steersman dug his paddle into the stream, and held hard with stiffened arms, his body thrown forward. The water gurgled aloud; and suddenly the long straight reach seemed to pivot on its centre, the forests swung in a semicircle, and the slanting beams of sunset touched the broadside of the canoe with a fiery glow, throwing the slender and distorted shadows of its crew upon the streaked glitter of the river. The white man turned to look ahead. The course of the boat had been altered at right-angles to the stream, and the carved dragon-head of its prow was pointing now at a gap in the fringing bushes of the bank. It glided through, brushing the overhanging twigs, and disappeared from the river like some slim and amphibious creature leaving the water for its lair in the forests. The narrow creek was like a ditch: tortuous, fabulously deep; filled with gloom under the thin strip of pure and shining blue of the heaven. Immense trees soared up, invisible behind the festooned draperies of creepers. Here and there, near the glistening blackness of the water, a twisted root of some tall tree showed amongst the tracery of small ferns, black and dull, writhing and motionless, like an arrested snake. The short words of the paddlers reverberated loudly between the thick and sombre walls of vegetation. Darkness oozed out from between the trees, through the tangled maze of the creepers, from behind the great fantastic and unstirring leaves; the darkness, mysterious and invincible; the darkness scented and poisonous of impenetrable forests. The men poled in the shoaling water. The creek broadened, opening out into a wide sweep of a stagnant lagoon. The forests receded from the marshy bank, leaving a level strip of bright green, reedy grass to frame the reflected blueness of the sky. A fleecy pink cloud drifted high above, trailing the delicate colouring of its image under the floating leaves and the silvery blossoms of the lotus. A little house, perched on high piles, appeared black in the distance. Near it, two tall nibong palms, that seemed to have come out of the forests in the background, leaned slightly over the ragged roof, with a suggestion of sad tenderness and care in the droop of their leafy and soaring heads. The steersman, pointing with his paddle, said, �Arsat is there. I see his canoe fast between the piles.� The polers ran along the sides of the boat glancing over their shoulders at the end of the day�s journey. They would have preferred to spend the night somewhere else than on this lagoon of weird aspect and ghostly reputation. Moreover, they disliked Arsat, first as a stranger, and also because he who repairs a ruined house, and dwells in it, proclaims that he is not afraid to live amongst the spirits that haunt the places abandoned by mankind. Such a man can disturb the course of fate by glances or words; while his familiar ghosts are not easy to propitiate by casual wayfarers upon whom they long to wreak the malice of their human master. White men care not for such things, being unbelievers and in league with the Father of Evil, who leads them unharmed through the invisible dangers of this world. To the warnings of the righteous they oppose an offensive pretence of disbelief. What is there to be done? So they thought, throwing their weight on the end of their long poles. The big canoe glided on swiftly, noiselessly, and smoothly, towards Arsat�s clearing, till, in a great rattling of poles thrown down, and the loud murmurs of �Allah be praised!� it came with a gentle knock against the crooked piles below the house. The boatmen with uplifted faces shouted discordantly, �Arsat! O Arsat!� Nobody came. The white man began to climb the rude ladder giving access to the bamboo platform before the house. The juragan of the boat said sulkily, �We will cook in the sampan, and sleep on the water.� �Pass my blankets and the basket,� said the white man, curtly. He knelt on the edge of the platform to receive the bundle. Then the boat shoved off, and the white man, standing up, confronted Arsat, who had come out through the low door of his hut. He was a man young, powerful, with broad chest and muscular arms. He had nothing on but his sarong. His head was bare. His big, soft eyes stared eagerly at the white man, but his voice and demeanour were composed as he asked, without any words of greeting-- �Have you medicine, Tuan?� �No,� said the visitor in a startled tone. �No. Why? Is there sickness in the house?� �Enter and see,� replied Arsat, in the same calm manner, and turning short round, passed again through the small doorway. The white man, dropping his bundles, followed. In the dim light of the dwelling he made out on a couch of bamboos a woman stretched on her back under a broad sheet of red cotton cloth. She lay still, as if dead; but her big eyes, wide open, glittered in the gloom, staring upwards at the slender rafters, motionless and unseeing. She was in a high fever, and evidently unconscious. Her cheeks were sunk slightly, her lips were partly open, and on the young face there was the ominous and fixed expression--the absorbed, contemplating expression of the unconscious who are going to die. The two men stood looking down at her in silence. �Has she been long ill?� asked the traveller. �I have not slept for five nights,� answered the Malay, in a deliberate tone. �At first she heard voices calling her from the water and struggled against me who held her. But since the sun of to-day rose she hears nothing--she hears not me. She sees nothing. She sees not me--me!� He remained silent for a minute, then asked softly-- �Tuan, will she die?� �I fear so,� said the white man, sorrowfully. He had known Arsat years ago, in a far country in times of trouble and danger, when no friendship is to be despised. And since his Malay friend had come unexpectedly to dwell in the hut on the lagoon with a strange woman, he had slept many times there, in his journeys up and down the river. He liked the man who knew how to keep faith in council and how to fight without fear by the side of his white friend. He liked him--not so much perhaps as a man likes his favourite dog--but still he liked him well enough to help and ask no questions, to think sometimes vaguely and hazily in the midst of his own pursuits, about the lonely man and the long-haired woman with audacious face and triumphant eyes, who lived together hidden by the forests--alone and feared. The white man came out of the hut in time to see the enormous conflagration of sunset put out by the swift and stealthy shadows that, rising like a black and impalpable vapour above the tree-tops, spread over the heaven, extinguishing the crimson glow of floating clouds and the red brilliance of departing daylight. In a few moments all the stars came out above the intense blackness of the earth and the great lagoon gleaming suddenly with reflected lights resembled an oval patch of night sky flung down into the hopeless and abysmal night of the wilderness. The white man had some supper out of the basket, then collecting a few sticks that lay about the platform, made up a small fire, not for warmth, but for the sake of the smoke, which would keep off the mosquitos. He wrapped himself in the blankets and sat with his back against the reed wall of the house, smoking thoughtfully. Arsat came through the doorway with noiseless steps and squatted down by the fire. The white man moved his outstretched legs a little. �She breathes,� said Arsat in a low voice, anticipating the expected question. �She breathes and burns as if with a great fire. She speaks not; she hears not--and burns!� He paused for a moment, then asked in a quiet, incurious tone-- �Tuan . . . will she die?� The white man moved his shoulders uneasily and muttered in a hesitating manner-- �If such is her fate.� �No, Tuan,� said Arsat, calmly. �If such is my fate. I hear, I see, I wait. I remember . . . Tuan, do you remember the old days? Do you remember my brother?� �Yes,� said the white man. The Malay rose suddenly and went in. The other, sitting still outside, could hear the voice in the hut. Arsat said: �Hear me! Speak!� His words were succeeded by a complete silence. �O Diamelen!� he cried, suddenly. After that cry there was a deep sigh. Arsat came out and sank down again in his old place. They sat in silence before the fire. There was no sound within the house, there was no sound near them; but far away on the lagoon they could hear the voices of the boatmen ringing fitful and distinct on the calm water. The fire in the bows of the sampan shone faintly in the distance with a hazy red glow. Then it died out. The voices ceased. The land and the water slept invisible, unstirring and mute. It was as though there had been nothing left in the world but the glitter of stars streaming, ceaseless and vain, through the black stillness of the night. The white man gazed straight before him into the darkness with wide-open eyes. The fear and fascination, the inspiration and the wonder of death--of death near, unavoidable, and unseen, soothed the unrest of his race and stirred the most indistinct, the most intimate of his thoughts. The ever-ready suspicion of evil, the gnawing suspicion that lurks in our hearts, flowed out into the stillness round him--into the stillness profound and dumb, and made it appear untrustworthy and infamous, like the placid and impenetrable mask of an unjustifiable violence. In that fleeting and powerful disturbance of his being the earth enfolded in the starlight peace became a shadowy country of inhuman strife, a battle-field of phantoms terrible and charming, august or ignoble, struggling ardently for the possession of our helpless hearts. An unquiet and mysterious country of inextinguishable desires and fears. A plaintive murmur rose in the night; a murmur saddening and startling, as if the great solitudes of surrounding woods had tried to whisper into his ear the wisdom of their immense and lofty indifference. Sounds hesitating and vague floated in the air round him, shaped themselves slowly into words; and at last flowed on gently in a murmuring stream of soft and monotonous sentences. He stirred like a man waking up and changed his position slightly. Arsat, motionless and shadowy, sitting with bowed head under the stars, was speaking in a low and dreamy tone-- �. . . for where can we lay down the heaviness of our trouble but in a friend�s heart? A man must speak of war and of love. You, Tuan, know what war is, and you have seen me in time of danger seek death as other men seek life! A writing may be lost; a lie may be written; but what the eye has seen is truth and remains in the mind!� �I remember,� said the white man, quietly. Arsat went on with mournful composure-- �Therefore I shall speak to you of love. Speak in the night. Speak before both night and love are gone--and the eye of day looks upon my sorrow and my shame; upon my blackened face; upon my burnt-up heart.� A sigh, short and faint, marked an almost imperceptible pause, and then his words flowed on, without a stir, without a gesture. �After the time of trouble and war was over and you went away from my country in the pursuit of your desires, which we, men of the islands, cannot understand, I and my brother became again, as we had been before, the sword-bearers of the Ruler. You know we were men of family, belonging to a ruling race, and more fit than any to carry on our right shoulder the emblem of power. And in the time of prosperity Si Dendring showed us favour, as we, in time of sorrow, had showed to him the faithfulness of our courage. It was a time of peace. A time of deer-hunts and cock-fights; of idle talks and foolish squabbles between men whose bellies are full and weapons are rusty. But the sower watched the young rice-shoots grow up without fear, and the traders came and went, departed lean and returned fat into the river of peace. They brought news, too. Brought lies and truth mixed together, so that no man knew when to rejoice and when to be sorry. We heard from them about you also. They had seen you here and had seen you there. And I was glad to hear, for I remembered the stirring times, and I always remembered you, Tuan, till the time came when my eyes could see nothing in the past, because they had looked upon the one who is dying there--in the house.� He stopped to exclaim in an intense whisper, �O Mara bahia! O Calamity!� then went on speaking a little louder: �There�s no worse enemy and no better friend than a brother, Tuan, for one brother knows another, and in perfect knowledge is strength for good or evil. I loved my brother. I went to him and told him that I could see nothing but one face, hear nothing but one voice. He told me: �Open your heart so that she can see what is in it--and wait. Patience is wisdom. Inchi Midah may die or our Ruler may throw off his fear of a woman!� . . . I waited! . . . You remember the lady with the veiled face, Tuan, and the fear of our Ruler before her cunning and temper. And if she wanted her servant, what could I do? But I fed the hunger of my heart on short glances and stealthy words. I loitered on the path to the bath-houses in the daytime, and when the sun had fallen behind the forest I crept along the jasmine hedges of the women�s courtyard. Unseeing, we spoke to one another through the scent of flowers, through the veil of leaves, through the blades of long grass that stood still before our lips; so great was our prudence, so faint was the murmur of our great longing. The time passed swiftly . . . and there were whispers amongst women--and our enemies watched--my brother was gloomy, and I began to think of killing and of a fierce death. . . . We are of a people who take what they want--like you whites. There is a time when a man should forget loyalty and respect. Might and authority are given to rulers, but to all men is given love and strength and courage. My brother said, �You shall take her from their midst. We are two who are like one.� And I answered, �Let it be soon, for I find no warmth in sunlight that does not shine upon her.� Our time came when the Ruler and all the great people went to the mouth of the river to fish by torchlight. There were hundreds of boats, and on the white sand, between the water and the forests, dwellings of leaves were built for the households of the Rajahs. The smoke of cooking-fires was like a blue mist of the evening, and many voices rang in it joyfully. While they were making the boats ready to beat up the fish, my brother came to me and said, �To-night!� I looked to my weapons, and when the time came our canoe took its place in the circle of boats carrying the torches. The lights blazed on the water, but behind the boats there was darkness. When the shouting began and the excitement made them like mad we dropped out. The water swallowed our fire, and we floated back to the shore that was dark with only here and there the glimmer of embers. We could hear the talk of slave-girls amongst the sheds. Then we found a place deserted and silent. We waited there. She came. She came running along the shore, rapid and leaving no trace, like a leaf driven by the wind into the sea. My brother said gloomily, �Go and take her; carry her into our boat.� I lifted her in my arms. She panted. Her heart was beating against my breast. I said, �I take you from those people. You came to the cry of my heart, but my arms take you into my boat against the will of the great!� �It is right,� said my brother. �We are men who take what we want and can hold it against many. We should have taken her in daylight.� I said, �Let us be off�; for since she was in my boat I began to think of our Ruler�s many men. �Yes. Let us be off,� said my brother. �We are cast out and this boat is our country now--and the sea is our refuge.� He lingered with his foot on the shore, and I entreated him to hasten, for I remembered the strokes of her heart against my breast and thought that two men cannot withstand a hundred. We left, paddling downstream close to the bank; and as we passed by the creek where they were fishing, the great shouting had ceased, but the murmur of voices was loud like the humming of insects flying at noonday. The boats floated, clustered together, in the red light of torches, under a black roof of smoke; and men talked of their sport. Men that boasted, and praised, and jeered--men that would have been our friends in the morning, but on that night were already our enemies. We paddled swiftly past. We had no more friends in the country of our birth. She sat in the middle of the canoe with covered face; silent as she is now; unseeing as she is now--and I had no regret at what I was leaving because I could hear her breathing close to me--as I can hear her now.� He paused, listened with his ear turned to the doorway, then shook his head and went on: �My brother wanted to shout the cry of challenge--one cry only--to let the people know we were freeborn robbers who trusted our arms and the great sea. And again I begged him in the name of our love to be silent. Could I not hear her breathing close to me? I knew the pursuit would come quick enough. My brother loved me. He dipped his paddle without a splash. He only said, �There is half a man in you now--the other half is in that woman. I can wait. When you are a whole man again, you will come back with me here to shout defiance. We are sons of the same mother.� I made no answer. All my strength and all my spirit were in my hands that held the paddle--for I longed to be with her in a safe place beyond the reach of men�s anger and of women�s spite. My love was so great, that I thought it could guide me to a country where death was unknown, if I could only escape from Inchi Midah�s fury and from our Ruler�s sword. We paddled with haste, breathing through our teeth. The blades bit deep into the smooth water. We passed out of the river; we flew in clear channels amongst the shallows. We skirted the black coast; we skirted the sand beaches where the sea speaks in whispers to the land; and the gleam of white sand flashed back past our boat, so swiftly she ran upon the water. We spoke not. Only once I said, �Sleep, Diamelen, for soon you may want all your strength.� I heard the sweetness of her voice, but I never turned my head. The sun rose and still we went on. Water fell from my face like rain from a cloud. We flew in the light and heat. I never looked back, but I knew that my brother�s eyes, behind me, were looking steadily ahead, for the boat went as straight as a bushman�s dart, when it leaves the end of the sumpitan. There was no better paddler, no better steersman than my brother. Many times, together, we had won races in that canoe. But we never had put out our strength as we did then--then, when for the last time we paddled together! There was no braver or stronger man in our country than my brother. I could not spare the strength to turn my head and look at him, but every moment I heard the hiss of his breath getting louder behind me. Still he did not speak. The sun was high. The heat clung to my back like a flame of fire. My ribs were ready to burst, but I could no longer get enough air into my chest. And then I felt I must cry out with my last breath, �Let us rest!� . . . �Good!� he answered; and his voice was firm. He was strong. He was brave. He knew not fear and no fatigue . . . My brother!� A murmur powerful and gentle, a murmur vast and faint; the murmur of trembling leaves, of stirring boughs, ran through the tangled depths of the forests, ran over the starry smoothness of the lagoon, and the water between the piles lapped the slimy timber once with a sudden splash. A breath of warm air touched the two men�s faces and passed on with a mournful sound--a breath loud and short like an uneasy sigh of the dreaming earth. Arsat went on in an even, low voice. �We ran our canoe on the white beach of a little bay close to a long tongue of land that seemed to bar our road; a long wooded cape going far into the sea. My brother knew that place. Beyond the cape a river has its entrance, and through the jungle of that land there is a narrow path. We made a fire and cooked rice. Then we lay down to sleep on the soft sand in the shade of our canoe, while she watched. No sooner had I closed my eyes than I heard her cry of alarm. We leaped up. The sun was halfway down the sky already, and coming in sight in the opening of the bay we saw a prau manned by many paddlers. We knew it at once; it was one of our Rajah�s praus. They were watching the shore, and saw us. They beat the gong, and turned the head of the prau into the bay. I felt my heart become weak within my breast. Diamelen sat on the sand and covered her face. There was no escape by sea. My brother laughed. He had the gun you had given him, Tuan, before you went away, but there was only a handful of powder. He spoke to me quickly: �Run with her along the path. I shall keep them back, for they have no firearms, and landing in the face of a man with a gun is certain death for some. Run with her. On the other side of that wood there is a fisherman�s house--and a canoe. When I have fired all the shots I will follow. I am a great runner, and before they can come up we shall be gone. I will hold out as long as I can, for she is but a woman--that can neither run nor fight, but she has your heart in her weak hands.� He dropped behind the canoe. The prau was coming. She and I ran, and as we rushed along the path I heard shots. My brother fired--once--twice--and the booming of the gong ceased. There was silence behind us. That neck of land is narrow. Before I heard my brother fire the third shot I saw the shelving shore, and I saw the water again; the mouth of a broad river. We crossed a grassy glade. We ran down to the water. I saw a low hut above the black mud, and a small canoe hauled up. I heard another shot behind me. I thought, �That is his last charge.� We rushed down to the canoe; a man came running from the hut, but I leaped on him, and we rolled together in the mud. Then I got up, and he lay still at my feet. I don�t know whether I had killed him or not. I and Diamelen pushed the canoe afloat. I heard yells behind me, and I saw my brother run across the glade. Many men were bounding after him, I took her in my arms and threw her into the boat, then leaped in myself. When I looked back I saw that my brother had fallen. He fell and was up again, but the men were closing round him. He shouted, �I am coming!� The men were close to him. I looked. Many men. Then I looked at her. Tuan, I pushed the canoe! I pushed it into deep water. She was kneeling forward looking at me, and I said, �Take your paddle,� while I struck the water with mine. Tuan, I heard him cry. I heard him cry my name twice; and I heard voices shouting, �Kill! Strike!� I never turned back. I heard him calling my name again with a great shriek, as when life is going out together with the voice--and I never turned my head. My own name! . . . My brother! Three times he called--but I was not afraid of life. Was she not there in that canoe? And could I not with her find a country where death is forgotten--where death is unknown!� The white man sat up. Arsat rose and stood, an indistinct and silent figure above the dying embers of the fire. Over the lagoon a mist drifting and low had crept, erasing slowly the glittering images of the stars. And now a great expanse of white vapour covered the land: it flowed cold and gray in the darkness, eddied in noiseless whirls round the tree-trunks and about the platform of the house, which seemed to float upon a restless and impalpable illusion of a sea. Only far away the tops of the trees stood outlined on the twinkle of heaven, like a sombre and forbidding shore--a coast deceptive, pitiless and black. Arsat�s voice vibrated loudly in the profound peace. �I had her there! I had her! To get her I would have faced all mankind. But I had her--and--� His words went out ringing into the empty distances. He paused, and seemed to listen to them dying away very far--beyond help and beyond recall. Then he said quietly-- �Tuan, I loved my brother.� A breath of wind made him shiver. High above his head, high above the silent sea of mist the drooping leaves of the palms rattled together with a mournful and expiring sound. The white man stretched his legs. His chin rested on his chest, and he murmured sadly without lifting his head-- �We all love our brothers.� Arsat burst out with an intense whispering violence-- �What did I care who died? I wanted peace in my own heart.� He seemed to hear a stir in the house--listened--then stepped in noiselessly. The white man stood up. A breeze was coming in fitful puffs. The stars shone paler as if they had retreated into the frozen depths of immense space. After a chill gust of wind there were a few seconds of perfect calm and absolute silence. Then from behind the black and wavy line of the forests a column of golden light shot up into the heavens and spread over the semicircle of the eastern horizon. The sun had risen. The mist lifted, broke into drifting patches, vanished into thin flying wreaths; and the unveiled lagoon lay, polished and black, in the heavy shadows at the foot of the wall of trees. A white eagle rose over it with a slanting and ponderous flight, reached the clear sunshine and appeared dazzlingly brilliant for a moment, then soaring higher, became a dark and motionless speck before it vanished into the blue as if it had left the earth forever. The white man, standing gazing upwards before the doorway, heard in the hut a confused and broken murmur of distracted words ending with a loud groan. Suddenly Arsat stumbled out with outstretched hands, shivered, and stood still for some time with fixed eyes. Then he said-- �She burns no more.� Before his face the sun showed its edge above the tree-tops rising steadily. The breeze freshened; a great brilliance burst upon the lagoon, sparkled on the rippling water. The forests came out of the clear shadows of the morning, became distinct, as if they had rushed nearer--to stop short in a great stir of leaves, of nodding boughs, of swaying branches. In the merciless sunshine the whisper of unconscious life grew louder, speaking in an incomprehensible voice round the dumb darkness of that human sorrow. Arsat�s eyes wandered slowly, then stared at the rising sun. �I can see nothing,� he said half aloud to himself. �There is nothing,� said the white man, moving to the edge of the platform and waving his hand to his boat. A shout came faintly over the lagoon and the sampan began to glide towards the abode of the friend of ghosts. �If you want to come with me, I will wait all the morning,� said the white man, looking away upon the water. �No, Tuan,� said Arsat, softly. �I shall not eat or sleep in this house, but I must first see my road. Now I can see nothing--see nothing! There is no light and no peace in the world; but there is death--death for many. We are sons of the same mother--and I left him in the midst of enemies; but I am going back now.� He drew a long breath and went on in a dreamy tone: �In a little while I shall see clear enough to strike--to strike. But she has died, and . . . now . . . darkness.� He flung his arms wide open, let them fall along his body, then stood still with unmoved face and stony eyes, staring at the sun. The white man got down into his canoe. The polers ran smartly along the sides of the boat, looking over their shoulders at the beginning of a weary journey. High in the stern, his head muffled up in white rags, the juragan sat moody, letting his paddle trail in the water. The white man, leaning with both arms over the grass roof of the little cabin, looked back at the shining ripple of the boat�s wake. Before the sampan passed out of the lagoon into the creek he lifted his eyes. Arsat had not moved. He stood lonely in the searching sunshine; and he looked beyond the great light of a cloudless day into the darkness of a world of illusions. 
34797	----	THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL _and Other Tales of Adventure_ A. CONAN DOYLE NEW YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1905, 1908, 1909, 1910, 1911, 1913, 1914, 1918, 1919, BY A. CONAN DOYLE COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY ASSOCIATED SUNDAY MAGAZINES, INC. COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY THE MCCLURE COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1900, 1902, BY THE S. S. MCCLURE COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1894, D. APPLETON & COMPANY PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA CONTENTS TALES OF ADVENTURE I DÉBUT OF BIMBASHI JOYCE II THE SURGEON OF GASTER FELL III BORROWED SCENES IV THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL V THE GREAT BROWN-PERICORD MOTOR VI THE SEALED ROOM TALES OF MEDICAL LIFE VII A PHYSIOLOGIST'S WIFE VIII BEHIND THE TIMES IX HIS FIRST OPERATION X THE THIRD GENERATION XI THE CURSE OF EVE XII A MEDICAL DOCUMENT XIII THE SURGEON TALKS XIV THE DOCTORS OF HOYLAND XV CRABBE'S PRACTICE TALES OF ADVENTURE I THE DÉBUT OF BIMBASHI JOYCE It was in the days when the tide of Mahdism, which had swept in such a flood from the great Lakes and Darfur to the confines of Egypt, had at last come to its full, and even begun, as some hoped, to show signs of a turn. At its outset it had been terrible. It had engulfed Hicks's army, swept over Gordon and Khartoum, rolled behind the British forces as they retired down the river, and finally cast up a spray of raiding parties as far north as Assouan. Then it found other channels to east and to west, to Central Africa and to Abyssinia, and retired a little on the side of Egypt. For ten years there ensued a lull, during which the frontier garrisons looked out upon those distant blue hills of Dongola. Behind the violet mists which draped them, lay a land of blood and horror. From time to time some adventurer went south towards those haze-girt mountains, tempted by stories of gum and ivory, but none ever returned. Once a mutilated Egyptian and once a Greek woman, mad with thirst and fear, made their way to the lines. They were the only exports of that country of darkness. Sometimes the sunset would turn those distant mists into a bank of crimson, and the dark mountains would rise from that sinister reek like islands in a sea of blood. It seemed a grim symbol in the southern heaven when seen from the fort-capped hills by Wady Halfa. Ten years of lust in Khartoum, ten years of silent work in Cairo, and then all was ready, and it was time for civilisation to take a trip south once more, travelling, as her wont is, in an armoured train. Everything was ready, down to the last pack-saddle of the last camel, and yet no one suspected it, for an unconstitutional Government has its advantages. A great administrator had argued, and managed, and cajoled; a great soldier had organised and planned, and made piastres do the work of pounds. And then one night these two master spirits met and clasped hands, and the soldier vanished away upon some business of his own. And just at that very time Bimbashi Hilary Joyce, seconded from the Royal Mallow Fusiliers, and temporarily attached to the Ninth Soudanese, made his first appearance in Cairo. Napoleon had said, and Hilary Joyce had noted, that great reputations are only to be made in the East. Here he was in the East with four tin cases of baggage, a Wilkinson sword, a Bond's slug-throwing pistol, and a copy of _Green's Introduction to the Study of Arabic_. With such a start, and the blood of youth running hot in his veins, everything seemed easy. He was a little frightened of the General, he had heard stories of his sternness to young officers, but with tact and suavity he hoped for the best. So, leaving his effects at Shepheard's Hotel, he reported himself at headquarters. It was not the General, but the head of the Intelligence Department who received him, the Chief being still absent upon that business which had called him. Hilary Joyce found himself in the presence of a short, thick-set officer, with a gentle voice and a placid expression which covered a remarkably acute and energetic spirit. With that quiet smile and guileless manner he had undercut and outwitted the most cunning of Orientals. He stood, a cigarette between his fingers, looking at the new-comer. "I heard that you had come. Sorry the Chief isn't here to see you. Gone up to the frontier, you know." "My regiment is at Wady Halfa. I suppose, sir, that I should report myself there at once?" "No; I was to give you your orders." He led the way to a map upon the wall, and pointed with the end of his cigarette. "You see this place. It's the Oasis of Kurkur--a little quiet, I am afraid, but excellent air. You are to get out there as quick as possible. You'll find a company of the Ninth, and half a squadron of cavalry. You will be in command." Hilary Joyce looked at the name, printed at the intersection of two black lines, without another dot upon the map for several inches round it. "A village, sir?" "No, a well. Not very good water, I'm afraid, but you soon get accustomed to natron. It's an important post, as being at the junction of two caravan routes. All routes are closed now, of course, but still you never know who _might_ come along them." "We are there, I presume, to prevent raiding?" "Well, between you and me, there's really nothing to raid. You are there to intercept messengers. They must call at the wells. Of course you have only just come out, but you probably understand already enough about the conditions of this country to know that there is a great deal of disaffection about, and that the Khalifa is likely to try and keep in touch with his adherents. Then, again, Senoussi lives up that way"--he waved his cigarette to the westward--"the Khalifa might send a message to him along that route. Anyhow, your duty is to arrest every one coming along, and get some account of him before you let him go. You don't talk Arabic, I suppose?" "I am learning, sir." "Well, well, you'll have time enough for study there. And you'll have a native officer, Ali something or other, who speaks English, and can interpret for you. Well, good-bye--I'll tell the Chief that you reported yourself. Get on to your post now as quickly as you can." Railway to Baliani, the post-boat to Assouan, and then two days on a camel in the Libyan Desert, with an Ababdeh guide, and three baggage-camels to tie one down to their own exasperating pace. However, even two and a half miles an hour mount up in time, and at last, on the third evening, from the blackened slag-heap of a hill which is called the Jebel Kurkur, Hilary Joyce looked down upon a distant clump of palms, and thought that this cool patch of green in the midst of the merciless blacks and yellows was the fairest colour effect that he had ever seen. An hour later he had ridden into the little camp, the guard had turned out to salute him, his native subordinate had greeted him in excellent English, and he had fairly entered into his own. It was not an exhilarating place for a lengthy residence. There was one large bowl-shaped, grassy depression sloping down to the three pits of brown and brackish water. There was the grove of palm trees also, beautiful to look upon, but exasperating in view of the fact that Nature has provided her least shady trees on the very spot where shade is needed most. A single widespread acacia did something to restore the balance. Here Hilary Joyce slumbered in the heat, and in the cool he inspected his square-shouldered, spindle-shanked Soudanese, with their cheery black faces and their funny little pork-pie forage caps. Joyce was a martinet at drill, and the blacks loved being drilled, so the Bimbashi was soon popular among them. But one day was exactly like another. The weather, the view, the employment, the food--everything was the same. At the end of three weeks he felt that he had been there for interminable years. And then at last there came something to break the monotony. One evening, as the sun was sinking, Hilary Joyce rode slowly down the old caravan road. It had a fascination for him, this narrow track, winding among the boulders and curving up the nullahs, for he remembered how in the map it had gone on and on, stretching away into the unknown heart of Africa. The countless pads of innumerable camels through many centuries had beaten it smooth, so that now, unused and deserted, it still wound away, the strangest of roads, a foot broad, and perhaps two thousand miles in length. Joyce wondered as he rode how long it was since any traveller had journeyed up it from the south, and then he raised his eyes, and there was a man coming along the path. For an instant Joyce thought that it might be one of his own men, but a second glance assured him that this could not be so. The stranger was dressed in the flowing robes of an Arab, and not in the close-fitting khaki of a soldier. He was very tall, and a high turban made him seem gigantic. He strode swiftly along, with head erect, and the bearing of a man who knows no fear. Who could he be, this formidable giant coming out of the unknown? The percursor possibly of a horde of savage spearmen. And where could he have walked from? The nearest well was a long hundred miles down the track. At any rate the frontier post of Kurkur could not afford to receive casual visitors. Hilary Joyce whisked round his horse, galloped into camp, and gave the alarm. Then, with twenty horsemen at his back, he rode out again to reconnoitre. The man was still coming on in spite of these hostile preparations. For an instant he had hesitated when first he saw the cavalry, but escape was out of the question, and he advanced with the air of one who makes the best of a bad job. He made no resistance, and said nothing when the hands of two troopers clutched at his shoulders, but walked quietly between their horses into camp. Shortly afterwards the patrols came in again. There were no signs of any Dervishes. The man was alone. A splendid trotting camel had been found lying dead a little way down the track. The mystery of the stranger's arrival was explained. But why, and whence, and whither?--these were questions for which a zealous officer must find an answer. Hilary Joyce was disappointed that there were no Dervishes. It would have been a great start for him in the Egyptian army had he fought a little action on his own account. But even as it was, he had a rare chance of impressing the authorities. He would love to show his capacity to the head of the Intelligence, and even more to that grim Chief who never forgot what was smart, or forgave what was slack. The prisoner's dress and bearing showed that he was of importance. Mean men do not ride pure-bred trotting camels. Joyce sponged his head with cold water, drank a cup of strong coffee, put on an imposing official tarboosh instead of his sun-helmet, and formed himself into a court of inquiry and judgment under the acacia tree. He would have liked his people to have seen him now, with his two black orderlies in waiting, and his Egyptian native officer at his side. He sat behind a camp-table, and the prisoner, strongly guarded, was led up to him. The man was a handsome fellow, with bold grey eyes and a long black beard. "Why!" cried Joyce, "the rascal is making faces at me." A curious contraction had passed over the man's features, but so swiftly that it might have been a nervous twitch. He was now a model of Oriental gravity. "Ask him who he is, and what he wants?" The native officer did so, but the stranger made no reply, save that the same sharp spasm passed once more over his face. "Well, I'm blessed!" cried Hilary Joyce. "Of all the impudent scoundrels! He keeps on winking at me. Who are you, you rascal? Give an account of yourself! D'ye hear?" But the tall Arab was as impervious to English as to Arabic. The Egyptian tried again and again. The prisoner looked at Joyce with his inscrutable eyes, and occasionally twitched his face at him, but never opened his mouth. The Bimbashi scratched his head in bewilderment. "Look here, Mahomet Ali, we've got to get some sense out of this fellow. You say there are no papers on him?" "No, sir; we found no papers." "No clue of any kind?" "He has come far, sir. A trotting camel does not die easily. He has come from Dongola, at least." "Well, we must get him to talk." "It is possible that he is deaf and dumb." "Not he. I never saw a man look more all there in my life." "You might send him across to Assouan." "And give some one else the credit! No, thank you. This is my bird. But how are we going to get him to find his tongue?" The Egyptian's dark eyes skirted the encampment and rested on the cook's fire. "Perhaps," said he, "if the Bimbashi thought fit----" He looked at the prisoner and then at the burning wood. "No, no, it wouldn't do. No, by Jove, that's going too far." "A very little might do it." "No, no. It's all very well here, but it would sound just awful if ever it got as far as Fleet Street. But, I say," he whispered, "we might frighten him a bit. There's no harm in that." "No, sir." "Tell them to undo the man's galabeeah. Order them to put a horseshoe in the fire and make it red-hot." The prisoner watched the proceedings with an air which had more of amusement than of uneasiness. He never winced as the black sergeant approached with the glowing shoe held upon two bayonets. "Will you speak now?" asked the Bimbashi savagely. The prisoner smiled gently and stroked his beard. "Oh, chuck the infernal thing away!" cried Joyce, jumping up in a passion. "There's no use trying to bluff the fellow. He knows we won't do it. But I _can_ and I _will_ flog him, and you tell him from me that if he hasn't found his tongue by to-morrow morning, I'll take the skin off his back as sure as my name's Joyce. Have you said all that?" "Yes, sir." "Well, you can sleep upon it, you beauty, and a good night's rest may it give you!" He adjourned the Court, and the prisoner, as imperturbable as ever, was led away by the guard to his supper of rice and water. Hilary Joyce was a kind-hearted man, and his own sleep was considerably disturbed by the prospect of the punishment which he must inflict next day. He had hopes that the mere sight of the koorbash and the thongs might prevail over his prisoner's obstinacy. And then, again, he thought how shocking it would be if the man proved to be really dumb after all. The possibility shook him so that he had almost determined by daybreak that he would send the stranger on unhurt to Assouan. And yet what a tame conclusion it would be to the incident! He lay upon his angareeb still debating it when the question suddenly and effectively settled itself. Ali Mahomet rushed into his tent. "Sir," he cried, "the prisoner is gone!" "Gone!" "Yes, sir, and your own best riding camel as well. There is a slit cut in the tent, and he got away unseen in the early morning." The Bimbashi acted with all energy. Cavalry rode along every track; scouts examined the soft sand of the wadys for signs of the fugitive, but no trace was discovered. The man had utterly disappeared. With a heavy heart Hilary Joyce wrote an official report of the matter and forwarded it to Assouan. Five days later there came a curt order from the Chief that he should report himself there. He feared the worst from the stern soldier, who spared others as little as he spared himself. And his worst forebodings were realised. Travel-stained and weary, he reported himself one night at the General's quarters. Behind a table piled with papers and strewn with maps the famous soldier and his Chief of Intelligence were deep in plans and figures. Their greeting was a cold one. "I understand, Captain Joyce," said the General, "that you have allowed a very important prisoner to slip through your fingers." "I am sorry, sir." "No doubt. But that will not mend matters. Did you ascertain anything about him before you lost him?" "No, sir." "How was that?" "I could get nothing out of him, sir." "Did you try?" "Yes, sir; I did what I could." "What did you do?" "Well, sir, I threatened to use physical force." "What did he say?" "He said nothing." "What was he like?" "A tall man, sir. Rather a desperate character, I should think." "Any way by which we could identify him?" "A long black beard, sir. Grey eyes. And a nervous way of twitching his face." "Well, Captain Joyce," said the General, in his stern, inflexible voice, "I cannot congratulate you upon your first exploit in the Egyptian army. You are aware that every English officer in this force is a picked man. I have the whole British army from which to draw. It is necessary, therefore, that I should insist upon the very highest efficiency. It would be unfair upon the others to pass over any obvious want of zeal or intelligence. You are seconded from the Royal Mallows, I understand?" "Yes, sir." "I have no doubt that your Colonel will be glad to see you fulfilling your regimental duties again." Hilary Joyce's heart was too heavy for words. He was silent. "I will let you know my final decision to-morrow morning." Joyce saluted and turned upon his heel. "You can sleep upon that, you beauty, and a good night's rest may it give you!" Joyce turned in bewilderment. Where had those words been used before? Who was it who had used them? The General was standing erect. Both he and the Chief of the Intelligence were laughing. Joyce stared at the tall figure, the erect bearing, the inscrutable grey eyes. "Good Lord!" he gasped. "Well, well, Captain Joyce, we are quits!" said the General, holding out his hand. "You gave me a bad ten minutes with that infernal red-hot horseshoe of yours. I've done as much for you. I don't think we can spare you for the Royal Mallows just yet awhile." "But, sir; but----!" "The fewer questions the better, perhaps. But of course it must seem rather amazing. I had a little private business with the Kabbabish. It must be done in person. I did it, and came to your post in my return. I kept on winking at you as a sign that I wanted a word with you alone." "Yes, yes. I begin to understand." "I couldn't give it away before all those blacks, or where should I have been the next time I used my false beard and Arab dress? You put me in a very awkward position. But at last I had a word alone with your Egyptian officer, who managed my escape all right." "He! Mahomet Ali!" "I ordered him to say nothing. I had a score to settle with you. But we dine at eight, Captain Joyce. We live plainly here, but I think I can do you a little better than you did me at Kurkur." II THE SURGEON OF GASTER FELL I: HOW THE WOMAN CAME TO KIRKBY-MALHOUSE Bleak and wind-swept is the little town of Kirkby-Malhouse, harsh and forbidding are the fells upon which it stands. It stretches in a single line of grey-stone, slate-roofed houses, dotted down the furze-clad slope of the rolling moor. In this lonely and secluded village, I, James Upperton, found myself in the summer of '85. Little as the hamlet had to offer, it contained that for which I yearned above all things--seclusion and freedom from all which might distract my mind from the high and weighty subjects which engaged it. But the inquisitiveness of my landlady made my lodgings undesirable and I determined to seek new quarters. As it chanced, I had in one of my rambles come upon an isolated dwelling in the very heart of these lonely moors, which I at once determined should be my own. It was a two-roomed cottage, which had once belonged to some shepherd, but had long been deserted, and was crumbling rapidly to ruin. In the winter floods, the Gaster Beck, which runs down Gaster Fell, where the little dwelling stood, had overswept its banks and torn away a part of the wall. The roof was in ill case, and the scattered slates lay thick amongst the grass. Yet the main shell of the house stood firm and true; and it was no great task for me to have all that was amiss set right. The two rooms I laid out in a widely different manner--my own tastes are of a Spartan turn, and the outer chamber was so planned as to accord with them. An oil-stove by Rippingille of Birmingham furnished me with the means of cooking; while two great bags, the one of flour, and the other of potatoes, made me independent of all supplies from without. In diet I had long been a Pythagorean, so that the scraggy, long-limbed sheep which browsed upon the wiry grass by the Gaster Beck had little to fear from their new companion. A nine-gallon cask of oil served me as a sideboard; while a square table, a deal chair and a truckle-bed completed the list of my domestic fittings. At the head of my couch hung two unpainted shelves--the lower for my dishes and cooking utensils, the upper for the few portraits which took me back to the little that was pleasant in the long, wearisome toiling for wealth and for pleasure which had marked the life I had left behind. If this dwelling-room of mine were plain even to squalor, its poverty was more than atoned for by the luxury of the chamber which was destined to serve me as my study. I had ever held that it was best for my mind to be surrounded by such objects as would be in harmony with the studies which occupied it, and that the loftiest and most ethereal conditions of thought are only possible amid surroundings which please the eye and gratify the senses. The room which I had set apart for my mystic studies was set forth in a style as gloomy and majestic as the thoughts and aspirations with which it was to harmonise. Both walls and ceilings were covered with a paper of the richest and glossiest black, on which was traced a lurid and arabesque pattern of dead gold. A black velvet curtain covered the single diamond-paned window; while a thick, yielding carpet of the same material prevented the sound of my own footfalls, as I paced backward and forward, from breaking the current of my thought. Along the cornices ran gold rods, from which depended six pictures, all of the sombre and imaginative caste, which chimed best with my fancy. And yet it was destined that ere ever I reached this quiet harbour I should learn that I was still one of humankind, and that it is an ill thing to strive to break the bond which binds us to our fellows. It was but two nights before the date I had fixed upon for my change of dwelling, when I was conscious of a bustle in the house beneath, with the bearing of heavy burdens up the creaking stair, and the harsh voice of my landlady, loud in welcome and protestations of joy. From time to time, amid the whirl of words, I could hear a gentle and softly modulated voice, which struck pleasantly upon my ear after the long weeks during which I had listened only to the rude dialect of the dalesmen. For an hour I could hear the dialogue beneath--the high voice and the low, with clatter of cup and clink of spoon, until at last a light, quick step passed my study door, and I knew that my new fellow-lodger had sought her room. On the morning after this incident I was up be-times, as is my wont; but I was surprised, on glancing from my window, to see that our new inmate was earlier still. She was walking down the narrow pathway, which zigzags over the fell--a tall woman, slender, her head sunk upon her breast, her arms filled with a bristle of wild flowers, which she had gathered in her morning rambles. The white and pink of her dress, and the touch of deep red ribbon in her broad drooping hat, formed a pleasant dash of colour against the dun-tinted landscape. She was some distance off when I first set eyes upon her, yet I knew that this wandering woman could be none other than our arrival of last night, for there was a grace and refinement in her bearing which marked her from the dwellers of the fells. Even as I watched she passed swiftly and lightly down the pathway, and turning through the wicket gate, at the further end of our cottage garden, she seated herself upon the green bank which faced my window, and strewing her flowers in front of her, set herself to arrange them. As she sat there, with the rising sun at her back, and the glow of the morning spreading like an aureole around her stately and well-poised head, I could see that she was a woman of extraordinary personal beauty. Her face was Spanish rather than English in its type--oval, olive, with black, sparkling eyes, and a sweetly sensitive mouth. From under the broad straw hat two thick coils of blue-black hair curved down on either side of her graceful queenly neck. I was surprised, as I watched her, to see that her shoes and skirt bore witness to a journey rather than to a mere morning ramble. Her light dress was stained, wet and bedraggled; while her boots were thick with the yellow soil of the fells. Her face, too, wore a weary expression, and her young beauty seemed to be clouded over by the shadow of inward trouble. Even as I watched her, she burst suddenly into wild weeping, and throwing down her bundle of flowers ran swiftly into the house. Distrait as I was and weary of the ways of the world, I was conscious of a sudden pang of sympathy and grief as I looked upon the spasm of despair which seemed to convulse this strange and beautiful woman. I bent to my books, and yet my thoughts would ever turn to her proud clear-cut face, her weather-stained dress, her drooping head, and the sorrow which lay in each line and feature of her pensive face. Mrs. Adams, my landlady, was wont to carry up my frugal breakfast; yet it was very rarely that I allowed her to break the current of my thoughts, or to draw my mind by her idle chatter from weightier things. This morning, however, for once, she found me in a listening mood, and with little prompting, proceeded to pour into my ears all that she knew of our beautiful visitor. "Miss Eva Cameron be her name, sir," she said: "but who she be, or where she came fra, I know little more than yoursel'. Maybe it was the same reason that brought her to Kirkby-Malhouse as fetched you there yoursel', sir." "Possibly," said I, ignoring the covert question; "but I should hardly have thought that Kirkby-Malhouse was a place which offered any great attractions to a young lady." "Heh, sir!" she cried, "there's the wonder of it. The leddy has just come fra France; and how her folk come to learn of me is just a wonder. A week ago, up comes a man to my door--a fine man, sir, and a gentleman, as one could see with half an eye. 'You are Mrs. Adams,' says he. 'I engage your rooms for Miss Cameron,' says he. 'She will be here in a week,' says he; and then off without a word of terms. Last night there comes the young leddy hersel'--soft-spoken and downcast, with a touch of the French in her speech. But my sakes, sir! I must away and mak' her some tea, for she'll feel lonesome-like, poor lamb, when she wakes under a strange roof." II: HOW I WENT FORTH TO GASTER FELL I was still engaged upon my breakfast when I heard the clatter of dishes and the landlady's footfall as she passed toward her new lodger's room. An instant afterward she had rushed down the passage and burst in upon me with uplifted hand and startled eyes. "Lord 'a mercy, sir!" she cried, "and asking your pardon for troubling you, but I'm feared o' the young leddy, sir; she is not in her room." "Why, there she is," said I, standing up and glancing through the casement. "She has gone back for the flowers she left upon the bank." "Oh, sir, see her boots and her dress!" cried the landlady wildly. "I wish her mother was here, sir--I do. Where she has been is more than I ken, but her bed has not been lain on this night." "She has felt restless, doubtless, and went for a walk, though the hour was certainly a strange one." Mrs. Adams pursed her lip and shook her head. But then as she stood at the casement, the girl beneath looked smilingly up at her and beckoned to her with a merry gesture to open the window. "Have you my tea there?" she asked in a rich, clear voice, with a touch of the mincing French accent. "It is in your room, miss." "Look at my boots, Mrs. Adams!" she cried, thrusting them out from under her skirt. "These fells of yours are dreadful places--_effroyable_--one inch, two inch; never have I seen such mud! My dress, too--_voilà_!" "Eh, miss, but you are in a pickle," cried the landlady, as she gazed down at the bedraggled gown. "But you must be main weary and heavy for sleep." "No, no," she answered laughingly, "I care not for sleep. What is sleep? it is a little death--_voilà tout_. But for me to walk, to run, to breathe the air--that is to live. I was not tired, and so all night I have explored these fells of Yorkshire." "Lord 'a mercy, miss, and where did you go?" asked Mrs. Adams. She waved her hand round in a sweeping gesture which included the whole western horizon. "There," she cried. "O comme elles sont tristes et sauvages, ces collines! But I have flowers here. You will give me water, will you not? They will wither else." She gathered her treasures in her lap, and a moment later we heard her light, springy footfall upon the stair. So she had been out all night, this strange woman. What motive could have taken her from her snug room on to the bleak, wind-swept hills? Could it be merely the restlessness, the love of adventure of a young girl? Or was there, possibly, some deeper meaning in this nocturnal journey? Deep as were the mysteries which my studies had taught me to solve, here was a human problem which for the moment at least was beyond my comprehension. I had walked out on the moor in the forenoon, and on my return, as I topped the brow that overlooks the little town, I saw my fellow-lodger some little distance off amongst the gorse. She had raised a light easel in front of her, and, with papered board laid across it, was preparing to paint the magnificent landscape of rock and moor which stretched away in front of her. As I watched her I saw that she was looking anxiously to right and left. Close by me a pool of water had formed in a hollow. Dipping the cup of my pocket-flask into it, I carried it across to her. "Miss Cameron, I believe," said I. "I am your fellow-lodger. Upperton is my name. We must introduce ourselves in these wilds if we are not to be for ever strangers." "Oh, then, you live also with Mrs. Adams!" she cried. "I had thought that there were none but peasants in this strange place." "I am a visitor, like yourself," I answered. "I am a student, and have come for quiet and repose, which my studies demand." "Quiet, indeed!" said she, glancing round at the vast circle of silent moors, with the one tiny line of grey cottages which sloped down beneath us. "And yet not quiet enough," I answered, laughing, "for I have been forced to move further into the fells for the absolute peace which I require." "Have you, then, built a house upon the fells?" she asked, arching her eyebrows. "I have, and hope within a few days to occupy it." "Ah, but that is _triste_," she cried. "And where is it, then, this house which you have built?" "It is over yonder," I answered. "See that stream which lies like a silver band upon the distant moor? It is the Gaster Beck, and it runs through Gaster Fell." She started, and turned upon me her great dark, questioning eyes with a look in which surprise, incredulity, and something akin to horror seemed to be struggling for mastery. "And you will live on the Gaster Fell?" she cried. "So I have planned. But what do you know of Gaster Fell, Miss Cameron?" I asked. "I had thought that you were a stranger in these parts." "Indeed, I have never been here before," she answered. "But I have heard my brother talk of these Yorkshire moors; and, if I mistake not, I have heard him name this very one as the wildest and most savage of them all." "Very likely," said I carelessly. "It is indeed a dreary place." "Then why live there?" she cried eagerly. "Consider the loneliness, the barrenness, the want of all comfort and of all aid, should aid be needed." "Aid! What aid should be needed on Gaster Fell?" She looked down and shrugged her shoulders. "Sickness may come in all places," said she. "If I were a man I do not think I would live alone on Gaster Fell." "I have braved worse dangers than that," said I, laughing; "but I fear that your picture will be spoiled, for the clouds are banking up, and already I feel a few raindrops." Indeed, it was high time we were on our way to shelter, for even as I spoke there came the sudden, steady swish of the shower. Laughing merrily, my companion threw her light shawl over her head, and, seizing picture and easel, ran with the lithe grace of a young fawn down the furze-clad slope, while I followed after with camp-stool and paint-box. * * * * * It was the eve of my departure from Kirkby-Malhouse that we sat upon the green bank in the garden, she with dark, dreamy eyes looking sadly out over the sombre fells; while I, with a book upon my knee, glanced covertly at her lovely profile and marvelled to myself how twenty years of life could have stamped so sad and wistful an expression upon it. "You have read much," I remarked at last. "Women have opportunities now such as their mothers never knew. Have you ever thought of going further--of seeking a course of college or even a learned profession?" She smiled wearily at the thought. "I have no aim, no ambition," she said. "My future is black--confused--a chaos. My life is like to one of these paths upon the fells. You have seen them, Monsieur Upperton. They are smooth and straight and clear where they begin; but soon they wind to left and wind to right, and so mid rocks and crags until they lose themselves in some quagmire. At Brussels my path was straight; but now, _mon Dieu!_ who is there can tell me where it leads?" "It might take no prophet to do that, Miss Cameron," quoth I, with the fatherly manner which two-score years may show toward one. "If I may read your life, I would venture to say that you were destined to fulfil the lot of women--to make some good man happy, and to shed around, in some wider circle, the pleasure which your society has given me since first I knew you." "I will never marry," said she, with a sharp decision, which surprised and somewhat amused me. "Not marry--and why?" A strange look passed over her sensitive features, and she plucked nervously at the grass on the bank beside her. "I dare not," said she in a voice that quivered with emotion. "Dare not?" "It is not for me. I have other things to do. That path of which I spoke is one which I must tread alone." "But this is morbid," said I. "Why should your lot, Miss Cameron, be separated from that of my own sisters, or the thousand other young ladies whom every season brings out into the world? But perhaps it is that you have a fear and distrust of mankind. Marriage brings a risk as well as a happiness." "The risk would be with the man who married me," she cried. And then in an instant, as though she had said too much, she sprang to her feet and drew her mantle round her. "The night air is chill, Mr. Upperton," said she, and so swept swiftly away, leaving me to muse over the strange words which had fallen from her lips. Clearly, it was time that I should go. I set my teeth and vowed that another day should not have passed before I should have snapped this newly formed tie and sought the lonely retreat which awaited me upon the moors. Breakfast was hardly over in the morning before a peasant dragged up to the door the rude hand-cart which was to convey my few personal belongings to my new dwelling. My fellow-lodger had kept her room; and, steeled as my mind was against her influence, I was yet conscious of a little throb of disappointment that she should allow me to depart without a word of farewell. My hand-cart with its load of books had already started, and I, having shaken hands with Mrs. Adams, was about to follow it, when there was a quick scurry of feet on the stair, and there she was beside me all panting with her own haste. "Then you go--you really go?" said she. "My studies call me." "And to Gaster Fell?" she asked. "Yes; to the cottage which I have built there." "And you will live alone there?" "With my hundred companions who lie in that cart." "Ah, books!" she cried, with a pretty shrug of her graceful shoulders. "But you will make me a promise?" "What is it?" I asked, in surprise. "It is a small thing. You will not refuse me?" "You have but to ask it." She bent forward her beautiful face with an expression of the most intense earnestness. "You will bolt your door at night?" said she; and was gone ere I could say a word in answer to her extraordinary request. It was a strange thing for me to find myself at last duly installed in my lonely dwelling. For me, now, the horizon was bounded by the barren circle of wiry, unprofitable grass, patched over with furze bushes and scarred by the profusion of Nature's gaunt and granite ribs. A duller, wearier waste I have never seen; but its dulness was its very charm. And yet the very first night which I spent at Gaster Fell there came a strange incident to lead my thoughts back once more to the world which I had left behind me. It had been a sullen and sultry evening, with great livid cloud-banks mustering in the west. As the night wore on, the air within my little cabin became closer and more oppressive. A weight seemed to rest upon my brow and my chest. From far away the low rumble of thunder came moaning over the moor. Unable to sleep, I dressed, and standing at my cottage door, looked on the black solitude which surrounded me. Taking the narrow sheep path which ran by this stream, I strolled along it for some hundred yards, and had turned to retrace my steps, when the moon was finally buried beneath an ink-black cloud, and the darkness deepened so suddenly that I could see neither the path at my feet, the stream upon my right, nor the rocks upon my left. I was standing groping about in the thick gloom, when there came a crash of thunder with a flash of lightning which lighted up the whole vast fell, so that every bush and rock stood out clear and hard in the vivid light. It was but for an instant, and yet that momentary view struck a thrill of fear and astonishment through me, for in my very path, not twenty yards before me, there stood a woman, the livid light beating upon her face and showing up every detail of her dress and features. There was no mistaking those dark eyes, that tall, graceful figure. It was she--Eva Cameron, the woman whom I thought I had for ever left. For an instant I stood petrified, marvelling whether this could indeed be she, or whether it was some figment conjured up by my excited brain. Then I ran swiftly forward in the direction where I had seen her, calling loudly upon her, but without reply. Again I called, and again no answer came back, save the melancholy wail of the owl. A second flash illuminated the landscape, and the moon burst out from behind its cloud. But I could not, though I climbed upon a knoll which overlooked the whole moor, see any sign of this strange midnight wanderer. For an hour or more I traversed the fell, and at last found myself back at my little cabin, still uncertain as to whether it had been a woman or a shadow upon which I gazed. III: OF THE GREY COTTAGE IN THE GLEN It was either on the fourth or the fifth day after I had taken possession of my cottage that I was astonished to hear footsteps upon the grass outside, quickly followed by a crack, as from a stick upon the door. The explosion of an infernal machine would hardly have surprised or discomfited me more. I had hoped to have shaken off all intrusion for ever, yet here was somebody beating at my door with as little ceremony as if it had been a village ale-house. Hot with anger, I flung down my book and withdrew the bolt just as my visitor had raised his stick to renew his rough application for admittance. He was a tall, powerful man, tawny-bearded and deep-chested, clad in a loose-fitting suit of tweed, cut for comfort rather than elegance. As he stood in the shimmering sunlight, I took in every feature of his face. The large, fleshy nose; the steady blue eyes, with their thick thatch of overhanging brows; the broad forehead, all knitted and lined with furrows, which were strangely at variance with his youthful bearing. In spite of his weather-stained felt hat, and the coloured handkerchief slung round his muscular brown neck, I could see at a glance he was a man of breeding and education. I had been prepared for some wandering shepherd or uncouth tramp, but this apparition fairly disconcerted me. "You look astonished," said he, with a smile. "Did you think, then, that you were the only man in the world with a taste for solitude? You see that there are other hermits in the wilderness besides yourself." "Do you mean to say that you live here?" I asked in no conciliatory voice. "Up yonder," he answered, tossing his head backward. "I thought as we were neighbours, Mr. Upperton, that I could not do less than look in and see if I could assist you in any way." "Thank you," I said coldly, standing with my hand upon the latch of the door. "I am a man of simple tastes, and you can do nothing for me. You have the advantage of me in knowing my name." He appeared to be chilled by my ungracious manner. "I learned it from the masons who were at work here," he said. "As for me, I am a surgeon, the surgeon of Gaster Fell. That is the name I have gone by in these parts, and it serves as well as another." "Not much room for practice here?" I observed. "Not a soul except yourself for miles on either side." "You appear to have had need of some assistance yourself," I remarked, glancing at a broad white splash, as from the recent action of some powerful acid, upon his sunburnt cheek. "That is nothing," he answered, curtly, turning his face half round to hide the mark. "I must get back, for I have a companion who is waiting for me. If I can ever do anything for you, pray let me know. You have only to follow the beck upward for a mile or so to find my place. Have you a bolt on the inside of your door?" "Yes," I answered, rather startled at this question. "Keep it bolted, then," he said. "The fell is a strange place. You never know who may be about. It is as well to be on the safe side. Good-bye." He raised his hat, turned on his heel and lounged away along the bank of the little stream. I was still standing with my hand upon the latch, gazing after my unexpected visitor, when I became aware of yet another dweller in the wilderness. Some distance along the path which the stranger was taking there lay a great grey boulder, and leaning against this was a small, wizened man, who stood erect as the other approached, and advanced to meet him. The two talked for a minute or more, the taller man nodding his head frequently in my direction, as though describing what had passed between us. Then they walked on together, and disappeared in a dip of the fell. Presently I saw them ascending once more some rising ground farther on. My acquaintance had thrown his arm round his elderly friend, either from affection or from a desire to aid him up the steep incline. The square burly figure and its shrivelled, meagre companion stood out against the sky-line, and turning their faces, they looked back at me. At the sight, I slammed the door, lest they should be encouraged to return. But when I peeped from the window some minutes afterward, I perceived that they were gone. All day I bent over the Egyptian papyrus upon which I was engaged; but neither the subtle reasonings of the ancient philosopher of Memphis, nor the mystic meaning which lay in his pages, could raise my mind from the things of earth. Evening was drawing in before I threw my work aside in despair. My heart was bitter against this man for his intrusion. Standing by the beck which purled past the door of my cabin, I cooled my heated brow, and thought the matter over. Clearly it was the small mystery hanging over these neighbours of mine which had caused my mind to run so persistently on them. That cleared up, they would no longer cause an obstacle to my studies. What was to hinder me, then, from walking in the direction of their dwelling, and observing for myself, without permitting them to suspect my presence, what manner of men they might be? Doubtless, their mode of life would be found to admit of some simple and prosaic explanation. In any case, the evening was fine, and a walk would be bracing for mind and body. Lighting my pipe, I set off over the moors in the direction which they had taken. About half-way down a wild glen there stood a small clump of gnarled and stunted oak trees. From behind these, a thin dark column of smoke rose into the still evening air. Clearly this marked the position of my neighbour's house. Trending away to the left, I was able to gain the shelter of a line of rocks, and so reach a spot from which I could command a view of the building without exposing myself to any risk of being observed. It was a small, slate-covered cottage, hardly larger than the boulders among which it lay. Like my own cabin, it showed signs of having been constructed for the use of some shepherd; but, unlike mine, no pains had been taken by the tenants to improve and enlarge it. Two little peeping windows, a cracked and weather-beaten door, and a discoloured barrel for catching the rain water, were the only external objects from which I might draw deductions as to the dwellers within. Yet even in these there was food for thought, for as I drew nearer, still concealing myself behind the ridge, I saw that thick bars of iron covered the windows, while the old door was slashed and plated with the same metal. These strange precautions, together with the wild surroundings and unbroken solitude, gave an indescribably ill omen and fearsome character to the solitary building. Thrusting my pipe into my pocket, I crawled upon my hands and knees through the gorse and ferns until I was within a hundred yards of my neighbour's door. There, finding that I could not approach nearer without fear of detection, I crouched down, and set myself to watch. I had hardly settled into my hiding place, when the door of the cottage swung open, and the man who had introduced himself to me as the surgeon of Gaster Fell came out, bareheaded, with a spade in his hands. In front of the door there was a small cultivated patch containing potatoes, peas and other forms of green stuff, and here he proceeded to busy himself, trimming, weeding and arranging, singing the while in a powerful though not very musical voice. He was all engrossed in his work, with his back to the cottage, when there emerged from the half-open door the same attenuated creature whom I had seen in the morning. I could perceive now that he was a man of sixty, wrinkled, bent, and feeble, with sparse, grizzled hair, and long, colourless face. With a cringing, sidelong gait, he shuffled toward his companion, who was unconscious of his approach until he was close upon him. His light footfall or his breathing may have finally given notice of his proximity, for the worker sprang round and faced him. Each made a quick step toward the other, as though in greeting, and then--even now I feel the horror of the instant--the tall man rushed upon and knocked his companion to the earth, then whipping up his body, ran with great speed over the intervening ground and disappeared with his burden into the house. Case hardened as I was by my varied life, the suddenness and violence of the thing made me shudder. The man's age, his feeble frame, his humble and deprecating manner, all cried shame against the deed. So hot was my anger, that I was on the point of striding up to the cabin, unarmed as I was, when the sound of voices from within showed me that the victim had recovered. The sun had sunk beneath the horizon, and all was grey, save a red feather in the cap of Pennigent. Secure in the failing light, I approached near and strained my ears to catch what was passing. I could hear the high, querulous voice of the elder man and the deep, rough monotone of his assailant, mixed with a strange metallic jangling and clanking. Presently the surgeon came out, locked the door behind him and stamped up and down in the twilight, pulling at his hair and brandishing his arms, like a man demented. Then he set off, walking rapidly up the valley, and I soon lost sight of him among the rocks. When his footsteps had died away in the distance, I drew nearer to the cottage. The prisoner within was still pouring forth a stream of words, and moaning from time to time like a man in pain. These words resolved themselves, as I approached, into prayers--shrill, voluble prayers, pattered forth with the intense earnestness of one who sees impending and imminent danger. There was to me something inexpressibly awesome in this gush of solemn entreaty from the lonely sufferer, meant for no human ear, and jarring upon the silence of the night. I was still pondering whether I should mix myself in the affair or not, when I heard in the distance the sound of the surgeon's returning footfall. At that I drew myself up quickly by the iron bars and glanced in through the diamond-paned window. The interior of the cottage was lighted up by a lurid glow, coming from what I afterward discovered to be a chemical furnace. By its rich light I could distinguish a great litter of retorts, test tubes and condensers, which sparkled over the table, and threw strange, grotesque shadows on the wall. On the further side of the room was a wooden framework resembling a hencoop, and in this, still absorbed in prayer, knelt the man whose voice I heard. The red glow beating upon his upturned face made it stand out from the shadow like a painting from Rembrandt, showing up every wrinkle upon the parchment-like skin. I had but time for a fleeting glance; then, dropping from the window, I made off through the rocks and the heather, nor slackened my pace until I found myself back in my cabin once more. There I threw myself upon my couch, more disturbed and shaken than I had ever thought to feel again. Such doubts as I might have had as to whether I had indeed seen my former fellow-lodger upon the night of the thunderstorm were resolved the next morning. Strolling along down the path which led to the fell, I saw in one spot where the ground was soft the impressions of a foot--the small, dainty foot of a well-booted woman. That tiny heel and high in-step could have belonged to none other than my companion of Kirkby-Malhouse. I followed her trail for some distance, till it still pointed, so far as I could discern it, to the lonely and ill-omened cottage. What power could there be to draw this tender girl, through wind and rain and darkness, across the fearsome moors to that strange rendezvous? I have said that a little beck flowed down the valley and past my very door. A week or so after the doings which I have described, I was seated by my window when I perceived something white drifting slowly down the stream. My first thought was that it was a drowning sheep; but picking up my stick, I strolled to the bank and hooked it ashore. On examination it prove to be a large sheet, torn and tattered, with the initials J. C. in the corner. What gave it its sinister significance, however, was that from hem to hem it was all dabbled and discoloured. Shutting the door of my cabin, I set off up the glen in the direction of the surgeon's cabin. I had not gone far before I perceived the very man himself. He was walking rapidly along the hillside, beating the furze bushes with a cudgel and bellowing like a madman. Indeed, at the sight of him, the doubts as to his sanity which had risen in my mind were strengthened and confirmed. As he approached I noticed that his left arm was suspended in a sling. On perceiving me he stood irresolute, as though uncertain whether to come over to me or not. I had no desire for an interview with him, however, so I hurried past him, on which he continued on his way, still shouting and striking about with his club. When he had disappeared over the fells, I made my way down to his cottage, determined to find some clue to what occurred. I was surprised, on reaching it, to find the iron-plated door flung wide open. The ground immediately outside it was marked with the signs of a struggle. The chemical apparatus within and the furniture were all dashed about and shattered. Most suggestive of all, the sinister wooden cage was stained with blood-marks, and its unfortunate occupant had disappeared. My heart was heavy for the little man, for I was assured I should never see him in this world more. There was nothing in the cabin to throw any light upon the identity of my neighbours. The room was stuffed with chemical instruments. In one corner a small bookcase contained a choice selection of works of science. In another was a pile of geological specimens collected from the limestone. I caught no glimpse of the surgeon upon my homeward journey; but when I reached my cottage I was astonished and indignant to find that somebody had entered it in my absence. Boxes had been pulled out from under the bed, the curtains disarranged, the chairs drawn out from the wall. Even my study had not been safe from this rough intruder, for the prints of a heavy boot were plainly visible on the ebony-black carpet. IV: OF THE MAN WHO CAME IN THE NIGHT The night set in gusty and tempestuous, and the moon was all girt with ragged clouds. The wind blew in melancholy gusts, sobbing and sighing over the moor, and setting all the gorse bushes agroaning. From time to time a little sputter of rain pattered up against the window-pane. I sat until near midnight, glancing over the fragment on immortality by Iamblichus, the Alexandrian platonist, of whom the Emperor Julian said that he was posterior to Plato in time but not in genius. At last, shutting up my book, I opened my door and took a last look at the dreary fell and still more dreary sky. As I protruded my head, a swoop of wind caught me and sent the red ashes of my pipe sparkling and dancing through the darkness. At the same moment the moon shone brilliantly out from between two clouds and I saw, sitting on the hillside, not two hundred yards from my door, the man who called himself the surgeon of Gaster Fell. He was squatted among the heather, his elbows upon his knees, and his chin resting upon his hands, as motionless as a stone, with his gaze fixed steadily upon the door of my dwelling. At the sight of this ill-omened sentinel, a chill of horror and of fear shot through me, for his gloomy and mysterious associations had cast a glamour round the man, and the hour and place were in keeping with his sinister presence. In a moment, however, a manly glow of resentment and self-confidence drove this petty emotion from my mind, and I strode fearlessly in his direction. He rose as I approached and faced me, with the moon shining on his grave, bearded face and glittering on his eyeballs. "What is the meaning of this?" I cried, as I came upon him. "What right have you to play the spy on me?" I could see the flush of anger rise on his face. "Your stay in the country has made you forget your manners," he said. "The moor is free to all." "You will say next that my house is free to all," I said, hotly. "You have had the impertinence to ransack it in my absence this afternoon." He started, and his features showed the most intense excitement. "I swear to you that I had no hand in it!" he cried. "I have never set foot in your house in my life. Oh, sir, sir, if you will but believe me, there is a danger hanging over you, and you would do well to be careful." "I have had enough of you," I said. "I saw that cowardly blow you struck when you thought no human eye rested upon you. I have been to your cottage, too, and know all that it has to tell. If there is a law in England, you shall hang for what you have done. As to me, I am an old soldier, sir, and I am armed. I shall not fasten my door. But if you or any other villain attempt to cross my threshold it shall be at your own risk." With these words, I swung round upon my heel and strode into my cabin. For two days the wind freshened and increased, with constant squalls of rain until on the third night the most furious storm was raging which I can ever recollect in England. I felt that it was positively useless to go to bed, nor could I concentrate my mind sufficiently to read a book. I turned my lamp half down to moderate the glare, and leaning back in my chair, I gave myself up to reverie. I must have lost all perception of time, for I have no recollection how long I sat there on the borderland betwixt thought and slumber. At last, about 3 or possibly 4 o'clock, I came to myself with a start--not only came to myself, but with every sense and nerve upon the strain. Looking round my chamber in the dim light, I could not see anything to justify my sudden trepidation. The homely room, the rain-blurred window and the rude wooden door were all as they had been. I had begun to persuade myself that some half-formed dream had sent that vague thrill through my nerves, when in a moment I became conscious of what it was. It was a sound--the sound of a human step outside my solitary cottage. Amid the thunder and the rain and the wind I could hear it--a dull, stealthy footfall, now on the grass, now on the stones--occasionally stopping entirely, then resumed, and ever drawing nearer. I sat breathlessly, listening to the eerie sound. It had stopped now at my very door, and was replaced by a panting and gasping, as of one who has travelled fast and far. By the flickering light of the expiring lamp I could see that the latch of my door was twitching, as though a gentle pressure was exerted on it from without. Slowly, slowly, it rose, until it was free of the catch, and then there was a pause of a quarter minute or more, while I still sat silent with dilated eyes and drawn sabre. Then, very slowly, the door began to revolve upon its hinges, and the keen air of the night came whistling through the slit. Very cautiously it was pushed open, so that never a sound came from the rusty hinges. As the aperture enlarged, I became aware of a dark, shadowy figure upon my threshold, and of a pale face that looked in at me. The features were human, but the eyes were not. They seemed to burn through the darkness with a greenish brilliancy of their own; and in their baleful, shifty glare I was conscious of the very spirit of murder. Springing from my chair, I had raised my naked sword, when, with a wild shouting, a second figure dashed up to my door. At its approach my shadowy visitant uttered a shrill cry, and fled away across the fells, yelping like a beaten hound. Tingling with my recent fear, I stood at my door, peering through the night with the discordant cry of the fugitives still ringing in my ears. At that moment a vivid flash of lightning illuminated the whole landscape and made it as clear as day. By its light I saw far away upon the hillside two dark figures pursuing each other with extreme rapidity across the fells. Even at that distance the contrast between them forbid all doubt as to their identity. The first was the small, elderly man, whom I had supposed to be dead; the second was my neighbour, the surgeon. For an instant they stood out clear and hard in the unearthly light; in the next, the darkness had closed over them, and they were gone. As I turned to re-enter my chamber, my foot rattled against something on my threshold. Stooping, I found it was a straight knife, fashioned entirely of lead, and so soft and brittle that it was a strange choice for a weapon. To render it more harmless, the top had been cut square off. The edge, however, had been assiduously sharpened against a stone, as was evident from the markings upon it, so that it was still a dangerous implement in the grasp of a determined man. And what was the meaning of it all? you ask. Many a drama which I have come across in my wandering life, some as strange and as striking as this one, has lacked the ultimate explanation which you demand. Fate is a grand weaver of tales; but she ends them, as a rule, in defiance of all artistic laws, and with an unbecoming want of regard for literary propriety. As it happens, however, I have a letter before me as I write which I may add without comment, and which will clear all that may remain dark. "KIRKBY LUNATIC ASYLUM, "_September 4th_, 1885. "SIR,--I am deeply conscious that some apology and explanation is due to you for the very startling and, in your eyes, mysterious events which have recently occurred, and which have so seriously interfered with the retired existence which you desire to lead. I should have called upon you on the morning after the recapture of my father, but my knowledge of your dislike to visitors and also of--you will excuse my saying it--your very violent temper, led me to think that it was better to communicate with you by letter. "My poor father was a hard-working general practitioner in Birmingham, where his name is still remembered and respected. About ten years ago he began to show signs of mental aberration, which we were inclined to put down to overwork and the effects of a sunstroke. Feeling my own incompetence to pronounce upon a case of such importance, I at once sought the highest advice in Birmingham and London. Among others we consulted the eminent alienist, Mr. Fraser Brown, who pronounced my father's case to be intermittent in its nature, but dangerous during the paroxysms. 'It may take a homicidal, or it may take a religious turn,' he said; 'or it may prove to be a mixture of both. For months he may be as well as you or I, and then in a moment he may break out. You will incur a great responsibility if you leave him without supervision.' "I need say no more, sir. You will understand the terrible task which has fallen upon my poor sister and me in endeavoring to save my father from the asylum which in his sane moments filled him with horror. I can only regret that your peace has been disturbed by our misfortunes, and I offer you in my sister's name and my own our apologies. "Yours truly, "J. CAMERON." III BORROWED SCENES "It cannot be done. People really would not stand it. I know because I have tried."--_Extract from an unpublished paper upon George Borrow and his writings._ Yes, I tried and my experience may interest other people. You must imagine, then, that I am soaked in George Borrow, especially in his _Lavengro_ and his _Romany Rye_, that I have modelled both my thoughts, my speech and my style very carefully upon those of the master, and that finally I set forth one summer day actually to lead the life of which I had read. Behold me, then, upon the country road which leads from the railway-station to the Sussex village of Swinehurst. As I walked, I entertained myself by recollections of the founders of Sussex, of Cerdic that mighty sea-rover, and of Ella his son, said by the bard to be taller by the length of a spear-head than the tallest of his fellows. I mentioned the matter twice to peasants whom I met upon the road. One, a tallish man with a freckled face, sidled past me and ran swiftly towards the station. The other, a smaller and older man, stood entranced while I recited to him that passage of the Saxon Chronicle which begins, "Then came Leija with longships forty-four, and the fyrd went out against him." I was pointing out to him that the Chronicle had been written partly by the monks of Saint Albans and afterwards by those of Peterborough, but the fellow sprang suddenly over a gate and disappeared. The village of Swinehurst is a straggling line of half-timbered houses of the early English pattern. One of these houses stood, as I observed, somewhat taller than the rest, and seeing by its appearance and by the sign which hung before it that it was the village inn, I approached it, for indeed I had not broken my fast since I had left London. A stoutish man, five foot eight perhaps in height, with black coat and trousers of a greyish shade, stood outside, and to him I talked in the fashion of the master. "Why a rose and why a crown?" I asked as I pointed upwards. He looked at me in a strange manner. The man's whole appearance was strange. "Why not?" he answered, and shrank a little backwards. "The sign of a king," said I. "Surely," said he. "What else should we understand from a crown?" "And which king?" I asked. "You will excuse me," said he, and tried to pass. "Which king?" I repeated. "How should I know?" he asked. "You should know by the rose," said I, "which is the symbol of that Tudor-ap-Tudor, who, coming from the mountains of Wales, yet seated his posterity upon the English throne. Tudor," I continued, getting between the stranger and the door of the inn, through which he appeared to be desirous of passing, "was of the same blood as Owen Glendower, the famous chieftain, who is by no means to be confused with Owen Gwynedd, the father of Madoc of the Sea, of whom the bard made the famous cnylyn, which runs in the Welsh as follows:--" I was about to repeat the famous stanza of Dafydd-ap-Gwilyn when the man, who had looked very fixedly and strangely at me as I spoke, pushed past me and entered the inn. "Truly," said I aloud, "it is surely Swinehurst to which I have come, since the same means the grove of the hogs." So saying I followed the fellow into the bar parlour, where I perceived him seated in a corner with a large chair in front of him. Four persons of various degrees were drinking beer at a central table, whilst a small man of active build, in a black, shiny suit, which seemed to have seen much service, stood before the empty fireplace. Him I took to be the landlord, and I asked him what I should have for my dinner. He smiled, and said that he could not tell. "But surely, my friend," said I, "you can tell me what is ready?" "Even that I cannot do," he answered; "but I doubt not that the landlord can inform us." On this he rang the bell, and a fellow answered, to whom I put the same question. "What would you have?" he asked. I thought of the master, and I ordered a cold leg of pork to be washed down with tea and beer. "Did you say tea _and_ beer?" asked the landlord. "I did." "For twenty-five years have I been in business," said the landlord, "and never before have I been asked for tea and beer." "The gentleman is joking," said the man with the shining coat. "Or else----" said the elderly man in the corner. "Or what, sir?" I asked. "Nothing," said he--"nothing." There was something very strange in this man in the corner--him to whom I had spoken of Dafydd-ap-Gwilyn. "Then you are joking," said the landlord. I asked him if he had read the works of my master, George Borrow. He said that he had not. I told him that in those five volumes he would not, from cover to cover, find one trace of any sort of a joke. He would also find that my master drank tea and beer together. Now it happens that about tea I have read nothing either in the sagas or in the bardic cnylynions, but, whilst the landlord had departed to prepare my meal, I recited to the company those Icelandic stanzas which praise the beer of Gunnar, the long-haired son of Harold the Bear. Then, lest the language should be unknown to some of them, I recited my own translation, ending with the line-- "If the beer be small, then let the mug be large." I then asked the company whether they went to church or to chapel. The question surprised them, and especially the strange man in the corner, upon whom I now fixed my eye. I had read his secret, and as I looked at him he tried to shrink behind the clock-case. "The church or the chapel?" I asked him. "The church," he gasped. "_Which_ church?" I asked. He shrank farther behind the clock. "I have never been so questioned," he cried. I showed him that I knew his secret. "Rome was not built in a day," said I. "He! He!" he cried. Then, as I turned away, he put his head from behind the clock-case, and tapped his forehead with his fore-finger. So also did the man with the shiny coat, who stood before the empty fireplace. Having eaten the cold leg of pork--where is there a better dish, save only boiled mutton with capers?--and having drunk both the tea and the beer, I told the company that such a meal had been called "to box Harry" by the master, who had observed it to be in great favour with commercial gentlemen out of Liverpool. With this information and a stanza or two from Lopez de Vega I left the Inn of the Rose and Crown behind me, having first paid my reckoning. At the door the landlord asked me for my name and address. "And why?" I asked. "Lest there should be inquiry for you," said the landlord. "But why should they enquire for me?" "Ah, who knows?" said the landlord, musing. And so I left him at the door of the Inn of the Rose and Crown, whence came, I observed, a great tumult of laughter. "Assuredly," thought I, "Rome was not built in a day." Having walked down the main street of Swinehurst, which, as I have observed, consists of half-timbered buildings in the ancient style, I came out upon the country road, and proceeded to look for those wayside adventures, which are, according to the master, as thick as blackberries for those who seek them upon an English highway. I had already received some boxing lessons before leaving London, so it seemed to me that if I should chance to meet some traveller whose size and age seemed such as to encourage the venture, I would ask him to strip off his coat and settle any differences which we could find in the old English fashion. I waited, therefore, by a stile for any one who should chance to pass, and it was while I stood there that the screaming horror came upon me, even as it came upon the master in the dingle. I gripped the bar of the stile, which was of good British oak. Oh, who can tell the terrors of the screaming horror! That was what I thought as I grasped the oaken bar of the stile. Was it the beer--or was it the tea? Or was it that the landlord was right and that other, the man with the black, shiny coat, he who had answered the sign of the strange man in the corner? But the master drank tea with beer. Yes, but the master also had the screaming horror. All this I thought as I grasped the bar of British oak, which was the top of the stile. For half an hour the horror was upon me. Then it passed, and I was left feeling very weak and still grasping the oaken bar. I had not moved from the stile, where I had been seized by the screaming horror, when I heard the sound of steps behind me, and turning round I perceived that a pathway led across the field upon the farther side of the stile. A woman was coming towards me along this pathway, and it was evident to me that she was one of those gipsy Rias, of whom the master has said so much. Looking beyond her, I could see the smoke of a fire from a small dingle, which showed where her tribe were camping. The woman herself was of a moderate height, neither tall nor short, with a face which was much sunburned and freckled. I must confess that she was not beautiful, but I do not think that any one, save the master, has found very beautiful women walking about upon the high-roads of England. Such as she was I must make the best of her, and well I knew how to address her, for many times had I admired the mixture of politeness and audacity which should be used in such a case. Therefore, when the woman had come to the stile, I held out my hand and helped her over. "What says the Spanish poet Calderon?" said I. "I doubt not that you have read the couplet which has been thus Englished: 'Oh, maiden, may I humbly pray That I may help you on your way.'" The woman blushed, but said nothing. "Where," I asked, "are the Romany chals and the Romany chis?" She turned her head away and was silent. "Though I am a gorgio," said I, "I know something of the Romany lil," and to prove it I sang the stanza-- "Coliko, coliko saulo wer Apopli to the farming ker Will wel and mang him mullo, Will wel and mang his truppo." The girl laughed, but said nothing. It appeared to me from her appearance that she might be one of those who make a living at telling fortunes or "dukkering," as the master calls it, at racecourses and other gatherings of the sort. "Do you dukker?" I asked. She slapped me on the arm. "Well, you _are_ a pot of ginger!" said she. I was pleased at the slap, for it put me in mind of the peerless Belle. "You can use Long Melford," said I, an expression which, with the master, meant fighting. "Get along with your sauce!" said she, and struck me again. "You are a very fine young woman," said I, "and remind me of Grunelda, the daughter of Hjalmar, who stole the golden bowl from the King of the Islands." She seemed annoyed at this. "You keep a civil tongue, young man," said she. "I meant no harm, Belle. I was but comparing you to one of whom the saga says her eyes were like the shine of sun upon icebergs." This seemed to please her, for she smiled. "My name ain't Belle," she said at last. "What is your name?" "Henrietta." "The name of a queen," I said aloud. "Go on," said the girl. "Of Charles's queen," said I, "of whom Waller the poet (for the English also have their poets, though in this respect far inferior to the Basques)--of whom, I say, Waller the poet said: 'That she was Queen was the Creator's act, Belated man could but endorse the fact.'" "I say!" cried the girl. "How you do go on!" "So now," said I, "since I have shown you that you are a queen you will surely give me a choomer"--this being a kiss in Romany talk. "I'll give you one on the ear-hole," she cried. "Then I will wrestle with you," said I. "If you should chance to put me down, I will do penance by teaching you the Armenian alphabet--the very word alphabet, as you will perceive, shows us that our letters came from Greece. If, on the other hand, I should chance to put you down, you will give me a choomer." I had got so far, and she was climbing the stile with some pretence of getting away from me, when there came a van along the road, belonging, as I discovered, to a baker in Swinehurst. The horse, which was of a brown colour, was such as is bred in the New Forest, being somewhat under fifteen hands and of a hairy, ill-kempt variety. As I know less than the master about horses, I will say no more of this horse, save to repeat that its colour was brown--nor indeed had the horse nor the horse's colour anything to do with my narrative. I might add, however, that it could either be taken as a small horse or as a large pony, being somewhat tall for the one, but undersized for the other. I have now said enough about this horse, which has nothing to do with my story, and I will turn my attention to the driver. This was a man with a broad, florid face and brown side-whiskers. He was of a stout build and had rounded shoulders, with a small mole of a reddish colour over his left eyebrow. His jacket was of velveteen, and he had large, iron-shod boots, which were perched upon the splashboard in front of him. He pulled up the van as he came up to the stile near which I was standing with the maiden who had come from the dingle, and in a civil fashion he asked me if I could oblige him with a light for his pipe. Then, as I drew a matchbox from my pocket, he threw his reins over the splashboard, and removing his large, iron-shod boots he descended on to the road. He was a burly man, but inclined to fat and scant of breath. It seemed to me that it was a chance for one of those wayside boxing adventures which were so common in the olden times. It was my intention that I should fight the man, and that the maiden from the dingle standing by me should tell me when to use my right or my left, as the case might be, picking me up also in case I should be so unfortunate as to be knocked down by the man with the iron-shod boots and the small mole of a reddish colour over his left eyebrow. "Do you use Long Melford?" I asked. He looked at me in some surprise, and said that any mixture was good enough for him. "By Long Melford," said I, "I do not mean, as you seem to think, some form of tobacco, but I mean that art and science of boxing which was held in such high esteem by our ancestors, that some famous professors of it, such as the great Gully, have been elected to the highest offices of the State. There were men of the highest character amongst the bruisers of England, of whom I would particularly mention Tom of Hereford, better known as Tom Spring, though his father's name, as I have been given to understand, was Winter. This, however, has nothing to do with the matter in hand, which is that you must fight me." The man with the florid face seemed very much surprised at my words, so that I cannot think that adventures of this sort were as common as I had been led by the master to expect. "Fight!" said he. "What about?" "It is a good old English custom," said I, "by which we may determine which is the better man." "I've nothing against you," said he. "Nor I against you," I answered. "So that we will fight for love, which was an expression much used in olden days. It is narrated by Harold Sygvynson that among the Danes it was usual to do so even with battle-axes, as is told in his second set of runes. Therefore you will take off your coat and fight." As I spoke, I stripped off my own. The man's face was less florid than before. "I'm not going to fight," said he. "Indeed you are," I answered, "and this young woman will doubtless do you the service to hold your coat." "You're clean balmy," said Henrietta. "Besides," said I, "if you will not fight me for love, perhaps you will fight me for this," and I held out a sovereign. "Will you hold his coat?" I said to Henrietta. "I'll hold the thick 'un," said she. "No, you don't," said the man, and put the sovereign into the pocket of his trousers, which were of a corduroy material. "Now," said he, "what am I do to earn this?" "Fight," said I. "How do you do it?" he asked. "Put up your hands," I answered. He put them up as I had said, and stood there in a sheepish manner with no idea of anything further. It seemed to me that if I could make him angry he would do better, so I knocked off his hat, which was black and hard, of the kind which is called billy-cock. "Heh, guv'nor!" he cried, "what are you up to?" "That was to make you angry," said I. "Well, I am angry," said he. "Then here is your hat," said I, "and afterwards we shall fight." I turned as I spoke to pick up his hat, which had rolled behind where I was standing. As I stooped to reach it, I received such a blow that I could neither rise erect nor yet sit down. This blow which I received as I stooped for his billy-cock hat was not from his fist, but from his iron-shod boot, the same which I had observed upon the splashboard. Being unable either to rise erect or yet to sit down, I leaned upon the oaken bar of the stile and groaned loudly on account of the pain of the blow which I had received. Even the screaming horror had given me less pain than this blow from the iron-shod boot. When at last I was able to stand erect, I found that the florid-faced man had driven away with his cart, which could no longer be seen. The maiden from the dingle was standing at the other side of the stile, and a ragged man was running across the field from the direction of the fire. "Why did you not warn me, Henrietta?" I asked. "I hadn't time," said she. "Why were you such a chump as to turn your back on him like that?" The ragged man had reached us, where I stood talking to Henrietta by the stile. I will not try to write his conversation as he said it, because I have observed that the master never condescends to dialect, but prefers by a word introduced here and there to show the fashion of a man's speech. I will only say that the man from the dingle spoke as did the Anglo-Saxons who were wont, as is clearly shown by the venerable Bede, to call their leaders 'Enjist and 'Orsa, two words which in their proper meaning signify a horse and a mare. "What did he hit you for?" asked the man from the dingle. He was exceedingly ragged, with a powerful frame, a lean brown face, and an oaken cudgel in his hand. His voice was very hoarse and rough, as is the case with those who live in the open air. "The bloke hit you," said he. "What did the bloke hit you for?" "He asked him to," said Henrietta. "Asked him to--asked him what?" "Why, he asked him to hit him. Gave him a thick 'un to do it." The ragged man seemed surprised. "See here, guv'nor," said he. "If you're collectin', I could let you have one half-price." "He took me unawares," said I. "What else would the bloke do when you bashed his hat?" said the maiden from the dingle. By this time I was able to straighten myself up by the aid of the oaken bar which formed the top of the stile. Having quoted a few lines of the Chinese poet Lo-tun-an to the effect that, however hard a knock might be, it might always conceivably be harder, I looked about for my coat, but could by no means find it. "Henrietta," I said, "what have you done with my coat?" "Look here, guv'nor," said the man from the dingle, "not so much Henrietta, if it's the same to you. This woman's my wife. Who are you to call her Henrietta?" I assured the man from the dingle that I had meant no disrespect to his wife. "I had thought she was a mort," said I; "but the ria of a Romany chal is always sacred to me." "Clean balmy," said the woman. "Some other day," said I, "I may visit you in your camp in the dingle and read you the master's book about the Romanys." "What's Romanys?" asked the man. _Myself._ Romanys are gipsies. _The Man._ We ain't gipsies. _Myself._ What are you then? _The Man._ We are hoppers. _Myself_ (to Henrietta). Then how did you understand all I have said to you about gipsies? _Henrietta._ I didn't. I again asked for my coat, but it was clear now that before offering to fight the florid-faced man with the mole over his left eyebrow I must have hung my coat upon the splashboard of his van. I therefore recited a verse from Ferideddin-Atar, the Persian poet, which signifies that it is more important to preserve your skin than your clothes, and bidding farewell to the man from the dingle and his wife I returned into the old English village of Swinehurst, where I was able to buy a second-hand coat, which enabled me to make my way to the station, where I should start for London. I could not but remark with some surprise that I was followed to the station by many of the villagers, together with the man with the shiny coat, and that other, the strange man, he who had slunk behind the clock-case. From time to time I turned and approached them, hoping to fall into conversation with them; but as I did so they would break and hasten down the road. Only the village constable came on, and he walked by my side and listened while I told him the history of Hunyadi Janos and the events which occurred during the wars between that hero, known also as Corvinus or the crow-like, and Mahommed the second, he who captured Constantinople, better known as Byzantium, before the Christian epoch. Together with the constable I entered the station, and seating myself in a carriage I took paper from my pocket and I began to write upon the paper all that had occurred to me, in order that I might show that it was not easy in these days to follow the example of the master. As I wrote, I heard the constable talk to the station-master, a stout, middle-sized man with a red neck-tie, and tell him of my own adventures in the old English village of Swinehurst. "He is a gentleman too," said the constable, "and I doubt not that he lives in a big house in London town." "A very big house if every man had his rights," said the station-master, and waving his hand he signalled that the train should proceed. IV THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL On the fourth day of March, in the year 1867, I being at that time in my five-and-twentieth year, I wrote down the following words in my note-book--the result of much mental perturbation and conflict: "The solar system, amidst a countless number of other systems as large as itself, rolls ever silently through space in the direction of the constellation of Hercules. The great spheres of which it is composed spin and spin through the eternal void ceaselessly and noiselessly. Of these one of the smallest and most insignificant is that conglomeration of solid and of liquid particles which we have named the earth. It whirls onwards now as it has done before my birth, and will do after my death--a revolving mystery, coming none know whence, and going none know whither. Upon the outer crust of this moving mass crawl many mites, of whom I, John M'Vittie, am one, helpless, impotent, being dragged aimlessly through space. Yet such is the state of things amongst us that the little energy and glimmering of reason which I possess is entirely taken up with the labours which are necessary in order to procure certain metallic discs, wherewith I may purchase the chemical elements necessary to build up my ever-wasting tissues, and keep a roof over me to shelter me from the inclemency of the weather. I thus have no thought to expend upon the vital questions which surround me on every side. Yet, miserable entity as I am, I can still at times feel some degree of happiness, and am even--save the mark!--puffed up occasionally with a sense of my own importance." These words, as I have said, I wrote down in my note-book, and they reflected accurately the thoughts which I found rooted far down in my soul, ever present and unaffected by the passing emotions of the hour. At last, however, came a time when my uncle, M'Vittie of Glencairn, died--the same who was at one time chairman of committees of the House of Commons. He divided his great wealth among his many nephews, and I found myself with sufficient to provide amply for my wants during the remainder of my life, and became at the same time the owner of a bleak tract of land upon the coast of Caithness, which I think the old man must have bestowed upon me in derision, for it was sandy and valueless, and he had ever a grim sense of humour. Up to this time I had been an attorney in a midland town in England. Now I saw that I could put my thoughts into effect, and, leaving all petty and sordid aims, could elevate my mind by the study of the secrets of nature. My departure from my English home was somewhat accelerated by the fact that I had nearly slain a man in a quarrel, for my temper was fiery, and I was apt to forget my own strength when enraged. There was no legal action taken in the matter, but the papers yelped at me, and folk looked askance when I met them. It ended by my cursing them and their vile, smoke-polluted town, and hurrying to my northern possession, where I might at last find peace and an opportunity for solitary study and contemplation. I borrowed from my capital before I went, and so was able to take with me a choice collection of the most modern philosophical instruments and books, together with chemicals and such other things as I might need in my retirement. The land which I had inherited was a narrow strip, consisting mostly of sand, and extending for rather over two miles round the coast of Mansie Bay, in Caithness. Upon this strip there had been a rambling, grey-stone building--when erected or wherefore none could tell me--and this I had repaired, so that it made a dwelling quite good enough for one of my simple tastes. One room was my laboratory, another my sitting-room, and in a third, just under the sloping roof, I slung the hammock in which I always slept. There were three other rooms, but I left them vacant, except one which was given over to the old crone who kept house for me. Save the Youngs and the M'Leods, who were fisher-folk living round at the other side of Fergus Ness, there were no other people for many miles in each direction. In front of the house was the great bay, behind it were two long barren hills, capped by other loftier ones beyond. There was a glen between the hills, and when the wind was from the land it used to sweep down this with a melancholy sough and whisper among the branches of the fir-trees beneath my attic window. I dislike my fellow-mortals. Justice compels me to add that they appear for the most part to dislike me. I hate their little crawling ways, their conventionalities, their deceits, their narrow rights and wrongs. They take offence at my brusque outspokenness, my disregard for their social laws, my impatience of all constraint. Among my books and my drugs in my lonely den at Mansie I could let the great drove of the human race pass onwards with their politics and inventions and tittle-tattle, and I remained behind stagnant and happy. Not stagnant either, for I was working in my own little groove, and making progress. I have reason to believe that Dalton's atomic theory is founded upon error, and I know that mercury is not an element. During the day I was busy with my distillations and analyses. Often I forgot my meals, and when old Madge summoned me to my tea I found my dinner lying untouched upon the table. At night I read Bacon, Descartes, Spinoza, Kant--all those who have pried into what is unknowable. They are all fruitless and empty, barren of result, but prodigal of polysyllables, reminding me of men who, while digging for gold, have turned up many worms, and then exhibit then exultantly as being what they sought. At times a restless spirit would come upon me, and I would walk thirty and forty miles without rest or breaking fast. On these occasions, when I used to stalk through the country villages, gaunt, unshaven, and dishevelled, the mothers would rush into the road and drag their children indoors, and the rustics would swarm out of their pot-houses to gaze at me. I believe that I was known far and wide as the "mad laird o' Mansie." It was rarely, however, that I made these raids into the country, for I usually took my exercise upon my own beach, where I soothed my spirit with strong black tobacco, and made the ocean my friend and my confidant. What companion is there like the great restless, throbbing sea? What human mood is there which it does not match and sympathise with? There are none so gay but that they may feel gayer when they listen to its merry turmoil, and see the long green surges racing in, with the glint of the sunbeams in their sparkling crests. But when the grey waves toss their heads in anger, and the wind screams above them, goading them on to madder and more tumultuous efforts, then the darkest-minded of men feels that there is a melancholy principle in Nature which is as gloomy as his own thoughts. When it was calm in the Bay of Mansie the surface would be as clear and bright as a sheet of silver, broken only at one spot some little way from the shore, where a long black line projected out of the water looking like the jagged back of some sleeping monster. This was the top of the dangerous ridge of rocks known to the fishermen as the "ragged reef o' Mansie." When the wind blew from the east the waves would break upon it like thunder, and the spray would be tossed far over my house and up to the hills behind. The bay itself was a bold and noble one, but too much exposed to the northern and eastern gales, and too much dreaded for its reef, to be much used by mariners. There was something of romance about this lonely spot. I have lain in my boat upon a calm day, and peering over the edge I have seen far down the flickering, ghostly forms of great fish--fish, as it seemed to me, such as naturalist never knew, and which my imagination transformed into the genii of that desolate bay. Once, as I stood by the brink of the waters upon a quiet night, a great cry, as of a woman in hopeless grief, rose from the bosom of the deep, and swelled out upon the still air, now sinking and now rising, for a space of thirty seconds. This I heard with my own ears. In this strange spot, with the eternal hills behind me and the eternal sea in front, I worked and brooded for more than two years unpestered by my fellow men. By degrees I had trained my old servant into habits of silence, so that she now rarely opened her lips, though I doubt not that when twice a year she visited her relations in Wick, her tongue during those few days made up for its enforced rest. I had come almost to forget that I was a member of the human family, and to live entirely with the dead whose books I pored over, when a sudden incident occurred which threw all my thoughts into a new channel. Three rough days in June had been succeeded by one calm and peaceful one. There was not a breath of air that evening. The sun sank down in the west behind a line of purple clouds, and the smooth surface of the bay was gashed with scarlet streaks. Along the beach the pools left by the tide showed up like gouts of blood against the yellow sand, as if some wounded giant had toilfully passed that way, and had left these red traces of his grievous hurt behind him. As the darkness closed in, certain ragged clouds which had lain low on the eastern horizon coalesced and formed a great irregular cumulus. The glass was still low, and I knew that there was mischief brewing. About nine o'clock a dull moaning sound came up from the sea, as from a creature, who, much harassed, learns that the hour of suffering has come round again. At ten a sharp breeze sprang up from the eastward. At eleven it had increased to a gale, and by midnight the most furious storm was raging which I ever remember upon that weather-beaten coast. As I went to bed the shingle and seaweed were pattering up against my attic window, and the wind was screaming as though every gust were a lost soul. By that time the sounds of the tempest had become a lullaby to me. I knew that the grey walls of the old house would buffet it out, and for what occurred in the world outside I had small concern. Old Madge was usually as callous to such things as I was myself. It was a surprise to me when, about three in the morning, I was awoke by the sound of a great knocking at my door and excited cries in the wheezy voice of my housekeeper. I sprang out of my hammock, and roughly demanded of her what was the matter. "Eh, maister, maister!" she screamed in her hateful dialect. "Come doun, mun; come doun! There's a muckle ship gaun ashore on the reef, and the puir folks are a' yammerin' and ca'in' for help--and I doobt they'll a' be drooned. Oh, Maister M'Vittie, come doun!" "Hold your tongue, you hag!" I shouted back in a passion. "What is it to you whether they are drowned or not? Get back to your bed and leave me alone." I turned in again and drew the blankets over me. "Those men out there," I said to myself, "have already gone through half the horrors of death. If they be saved they will but have to go through the same once more in the space of a few brief years. It is best therefore that they should pass away now, since they have suffered that anticipation which is more than the pain of dissolution." With this thought in my mind I endeavoured to compose myself to sleep once more, for that philosophy which had taught me to consider death as a small and trivial incident in man's eternal and ever-changing career, had also broken me of much curiosity concerning worldly matters. On this occasion I found, however, that the old leaven still fermented strongly in my soul. I tossed from side to side for some minutes endeavouring to beat down the impulses of the moment by the rules of conduct which I had framed during months of thought. Then I heard a dull roar amid the wild shriek of the gale, and I knew that it was the sound of a signal-gun. Driven by an uncontrollable impulse, I rose, dressed, and having lit my pipe, walked out on to the beach. It was pitch dark when I came outside, and the wind blew with such violence that I had to put my shoulder against it and push my way along the shingle. My face pringled and smarted with the sting of the gravel which was blown against it, and the red ashes of my pipe streamed away behind me, dancing fantastically through the darkness. I went down to where the great waves were thundering in, and shading my eyes with my hands to keep off the salt spray, I peered out to sea. I could distinguish nothing, and yet it seemed to me that shouts and great inarticulate cries were borne to me by the blasts. Suddenly as I gazed I made out the glint of a light, and then the whole bay and the beach were lit up in a moment by a vivid blue glare. They were burning a coloured signal-light on board of the vessel. There she lay on her beam ends right in the centre of the jagged reef, hurled over to such an angle that I could see all the planking of her deck. She was a large two-masted schooner, of foreign rig, and lay perhaps a hundred and eighty or two hundred yards from the shore. Every spar and rope and writhing piece of cordage showed up hard and clear under the livid light which sputtered and flickered from the highest portion of the forecastle. Beyond the doomed ship out of the great darkness came the long rolling lines of black waves, never ending, never tiring, with a petulant tuft of foam here and there upon their crests. Each as it reached the broad circle of unnatural light appeared to gather strength and volume, and to hurry on more impetuously until, with a roar and a jarring crash, it sprang upon its victim. Clinging to the weather shrouds I could distinctly see some ten or twelve frightened seamen, who, when their light revealed my presence, turned their white faces towards me and waved their hands imploringly. I felt my gorge rise against these poor cowering worms. Why should they presume to shirk the narrow pathway along which all that is great and noble among mankind has travelled? There was one there who interested me more than they. He was a tall man, who stood apart from the others, balancing himself upon the swaying wreck as though he disdained to cling to rope or bulwark. His hands were clasped behind his back and his head was sunk upon his breast, but even in that despondent attitude there was a litheness and decision in his pose and in every motion which marked him as a man little likely to yield to despair. Indeed, I could see by his occasional rapid glances up and down and all around him that he was weighing every chance of safety, but though he often gazed across the raging surf to where he could see my dark figure upon the beach, his self-respect or some other reason forbade him from imploring my help in any way. He stood, dark, silent, and inscrutable, looking down on the black sea, and waiting for whatever fortune Fate might send him. It seemed to me that that problem would very soon be settled. As I looked, an enormous billow, topping all the others, and coming after them, like a driver following a flock, swept over the vessel. Her foremast snapped short off, and the men who clung to the shrouds were brushed away like a swarm of flies. With a rending, riving sound the ship began to split in two, where the sharp back of the Mansie reef was sawing into her keel. The solitary man upon the forecastle ran rapidly across the deck and seized hold of a white bundle which I had already observed but failed to make out. As he lifted it up the light fell upon it, and I saw that the object was a woman, with a spar lashed across her body and under her arms in such a way that her head should always rise above water. He bore her tenderly to the side and seemed to speak for a minute or so to her, as though explaining the impossibility of remaining upon the ship. Her answer was a singular one. I saw her deliberately raise her hand and strike him across the face with it. He appeared to be silenced for a moment or so by this, but he addressed her again, directing her, as far as I could gather from his motions, how she should behave when in the water. She shrank away from him, but he caught her in his arms. He stooped over her for a moment and seemed to press his lips against her forehead. Then a great wave came welling up against the side of the breaking vessel, and leaning over he placed her upon the summit of it as gently as a child might be committed to its cradle. I saw her white dress flickering among the foam on the crest of the dark billow, and then the light sank gradually lower, and the riven ship and its lonely occupant were hidden from my eyes. As I watched those things my manhood overcame my philosophy, and I felt a frantic impulse to be up and doing. I threw my cynicism to one side as a garment which I might don again at leisure, and I rushed wildly to my boat and my sculls. She was a leaky tub, but what then? Was I, who had cast many a wistful, doubtful glance at my opium bottle, to begin now to weigh chances and to cavil at danger? I dragged her down to the sea with the strength of a maniac and sprang in. For a moment or two it was a question whether she could live among the boiling surge, but a dozen frantic strokes took me through it, half full of water but still afloat. I was out on the unbroken waves now, at one time climbing, climbing up the broad black breast of one, then sinking down, down on the other side, until looking up I could see the gleam of the foam all around me against the dark heavens. Far behind me I could hear the wild wailings of old Madge, who, seeing me start, thought no doubt that my madness had come to a climax. As I rowed I peered over my shoulder, until at last on the belly of a great wave which was sweeping towards me I distinguished the vague white outline of the woman. Stooping over, I seized her as she swept by me, and with an effort lifted her, all sodden with water, into the boat. There was no need to row back, for the next billow carried us in and threw us upon the beach. I dragged the boat out of danger, and then lifting up the woman I carried her to the house, followed by my housekeeper, loud with congratulation and praise. Now that I had done this thing a reaction set in upon me. I felt that my burden lived, for I heard the faint beat of her heart as I pressed my ear against her side in carrying her. Knowing this, I threw her down beside the fire which Madge had lit, with as little sympathy as though she had been a bundle of fagots. I never glanced at her to see if she were fair or no. For many years I had cared little for the face of a woman. As I lay in my hammock upstairs, however, I heard the old woman as she chafed the warmth back into her, crooning a chorus of, "Eh, the puir lassie! Eh, the bonnie lassie!" from which I gathered that this piece of jetsam was both young and comely. * * * * * The morning after the gale was peaceful and sunny. As I walked along the long sweep of sand I could hear the panting of the sea. It was heaving and swirling about the reef, but along the shore it rippled in gently enough. There was no sign of the schooner, nor was there any wreckage upon the beach, which did not surprise me, as I knew there was a great undertow in those waters. A couple of broad-winged gulls were hovering and skimming over the scene of the shipwreck, as though many strange things were visible to them beneath the waves. At times I could hear their raucous voices as they spoke to one another of what they saw. When I came back from my walk the woman was waiting at the door for me. I began to wish when I saw her that I had never saved her, for here was an end of my privacy. She was very young--at the most nineteen, with a pale somewhat refined face, yellow hair, merry blue eyes, and shining teeth. Her beauty was of an ethereal type. She looked so white and light and fragile that she might have been the spirit of that storm-foam from out of which I plucked her. She had wreathed some of Madge's garments round her in a way which was quaint and not unbecoming. As I strode heavily up the pathway, she put out her hands with a pretty, child-like gesture, and ran down towards me, meaning, as I surmise, to thank me for having saved her, but I put her aside with a wave of my hand and passed her. At this she seemed somewhat hurt, and the tears sprang into her eyes, but she followed me into the sitting-room and watched me wistfully. "What country do you come from?" I asked her suddenly. She smiled when I spoke, but shook her head. "Français?" I asked. "Deutsch?" "Espagnol?"--each time she shook her head, and then she rippled off into a long statement in some tongue of which I could not understand one word. After breakfast was over, however, I got a clue to her nationality. Passing along the beach once more, I saw that in a cleft of the ridge a piece of wood had been jammed. I rowed out to it in my boat, and brought it ashore. It was part of the sternpost of a boat, and on it, or rather on the piece of wood attached to it, was the word "Archangel," painted in strange, quaint lettering. "So," I thought, as I paddled slowly back, "this pale damsel is a Russian. A fit subject for the White Czar and a proper dweller on the shores of the White Sea!" It seemed to me strange that one of her apparent refinement should perform so long a journey in so frail a craft. When I came back into the house, I pronounced the word "Archangel" several times in different intonations, but she did not appear to recognise it. I shut myself up in the laboratory all the morning, continuing a research which I was making upon the nature of the allotropic forms of carbon and of sulphur. When I came out at mid-day for some food she was sitting, by the table with a needle and thread, mending some rents in her clothes, which were now dry. I resented her continued presence, but I could not turn her out on the beach to shift for herself. Presently she presented a new phase of her character. Pointing to herself and then to the scene of the shipwreck, she held up one finger, by which I understood her to be asking whether she was the only one saved. I nodded my head to indicate that she was. On this she sprang out of her chair with a cry of great joy, and holding the garment which she was mending over her head, and swaying it from side to side with the motion of her body, she danced as lightly as a feather all round the room, and then out through the open door into the sunshine. As she whirled round she sang in a plaintive shrill voice some uncouth barbarous chant, expressive of exultation. I called out to her, "Come in, you young fiend, come in and be silent!" but she went on with her dance. Then she suddenly ran towards me, and catching my hand before I could pluck it away, she kissed it. While we were at dinner she spied one of my pencils, and taking it up she wrote the two words "Sophie Ramusine" upon a piece of paper, and then pointed to herself as a sign that that was her name. She handed the pencil to me, evidently expecting that I would be equally communicative, but I put it in my pocket as a sign that I wished to hold no intercourse with her. Every moment of my life now I regretted the unguarded precipitancy with which I had saved this woman. What was it to me whether she had lived or died? I was no young, hot-headed youth to do such things. It was bad enough to be compelled to have Madge in the house, but she was old and ugly, and could be ignored. This one was young and lively, and so fashioned as to divert attention from graver things. Where could I send her, and what could I do with her? If I sent information to Wick it would mean that officials and others would come to me and pry, and peep, and chatter--a hateful thought. It was better to endure her presence than that. I soon found that there were fresh troubles in store for me. There is no place safe from the swarming, restless race of which I am a member. In the evening, when the sun was dipping down behind the hills, casting them into dark shadow, but gilding the sands and casting a great glory over the sea, I went, as is my custom, for a stroll along the beach. Sometimes on these occasions I took my book with me. I did so on this night, and stretching myself upon a sand-dune I composed myself to read. As I lay there I suddenly became aware of a shadow which interposed itself between the sun and myself. Looking round, I saw to my great surprise a very tall, powerful man, who was standing a few yards off, and who, instead of looking at me, was ignoring my existence completely, and was gazing over my head with a stern set face at the bay and the black line of the Mansie reef. His complexion was dark, with black hair, and short, curling beard, a hawk-like nose, and golden earrings in his ears--the general effect being wild and somewhat noble. He wore a faded velveteen jacket, a red-flannel shirt, and high sea boots, coming half-way up his thighs. I recognised him at a glance as being the same man who had been left on the wreck the night before. "Hullo!" I said, in an aggrieved voice. "You got ashore all right, then?" "Yes," he answered, in good English. "It was no doing of mine. The waves threw me up. I wish to God I had been allowed to drown!" There was a slight foreign lisp in his accent which was rather pleasing. "Two good fishermen, who live round yonder point, pulled me out and cared for me; yet I could not honestly thank them for it." "Ho! ho!" thought I, "here is a man of my own kidney." "Why do you wish to be drowned?" I asked. "Because," he cried, throwing out his long arms with a passionate, despairing gesture, "there--there in that blue smiling bay, lies my soul, my treasure--everything that I loved and lived for." "Well, well," I said. "People are ruined every day, but there's no use making a fuss about it. Let me inform you that this ground on which you walk is my ground, and that the sooner you take yourself off it the better pleased I shall be. One of you is quite trouble enough." "One of us?" he gasped. "Yes--if you could take her off with you I should be still more grateful." He gazed at me for a moment as if hardly able to realise what I said, and then with a wild cry he ran away from me with prodigious speed and raced along the sands towards my house. Never before or since have I seen a human being run so fast. I followed as rapidly as I could, furious at this threatened invasion, but long before I reached the house he had disappeared through the open door. I heard a great scream from the inside, and as I came nearer the sound of a man's bass voice speaking rapidly and loudly. When I looked in, the girl, Sophie Ramusine, was crouching in a corner, cowering away, with fear and loathing expressed on her averted face and in every line of her shrinking form. The other, with his dark eyes flashing, and his outstretched hands quivering with emotion, was pouring forth a torrent of passionate pleading words. He made a step forward to her as I entered, but she writhed still further away, and uttered a sharp cry like that of a rabbit when the weasel has him by the throat. "Here!" I said, pulling him back from her. "This is a pretty to-do! What do you mean? Do you think this is a wayside inn or place of public accommodation?" "Oh, sir," he said, "excuse me. This woman is my wife, and I feared that she was drowned. You have brought me back to life." "Who are you?" I asked roughly. "I am a man from Archangel," he said simply; "a Russian man." "What is your name?" "Ourganeff." "Ourganeff!--and hers is Sophie Ramusine. She is no wife of yours. She has no ring." "We are man and wife in the sight of Heaven," he said solemnly, looking upwards. "We are bound by higher laws than those of earth." As he spoke the girl slipped behind me and caught me by the other hand, pressing it as though beseeching my protection. "Give me up my wife, sir," he went on. "Let me take her away from here." "Look here, you--whatever your name is," I said sternly; "I don't want this wench here. I wish I had never seen her. If she died it would be no grief to me. But as to handing her over to you, when it is clear she fears and hates you, I won't do it. So now just clear your great body out of this, and leave me to my books. I hope I may never look upon your face again." "You won't give her up to me?" he said hoarsely. "I'll see you damned first!" I answered. "Suppose I take her," he cried, his dark face growing darker. All my tigerish blood flashed up in a moment. I picked up a billet of wood from beside the fireplace. "Go," I said, in a low voice, "go quick, or I may do you an injury." He looked at me irresolutely for a moment, and then he left the house. He came back again in a moment, however, and stood in the doorway looking in at us. "Have a heed what you do," he said. "The woman is mine, and I shall have her. When it comes to blows, a Russian is as good a man as a Scotchman." "We shall see that," I cried, springing forward, but he was already gone, and I could see his tall form moving away through the gathering darkness. For a month or more after this things went smoothly with us. I never spoke to the Russian girl, nor did she ever address me. Sometimes when I was at work in my laboratory she would slip inside the door and sit silently there watching me with her great eyes. At first this intrusion annoyed me, but by degrees, finding that she made no attempt to distract my attention, I suffered her to remain. Encouraged by this concession, she gradually came to move the stool on which she sat nearer and nearer to my table, until after gaining a little every day during some weeks, she at last worked her way right up to me, and used to perch herself beside me whenever I worked. In this position she used, still without ever obtruding her presence in any way, to make herself very useful by holding my pens, test-tubes, or bottles and handing me whatever I wanted, with never-failing sagacity. By ignoring the fact of her being a human being, and looking upon her as a useful automatic machine, I accustomed myself to her presence so far as to miss her on the few occasions when she was not at her post. I have a habit of talking aloud to myself at times when I work, so as to fix my results better in my mind. The girl must have had a surprising memory for sounds, for she could always repeat the words which I let fall in this way, without, of course, understanding in the least what they meant. I have often been amused at hearing her discharge a volley of chemical equations and algebraic symbols at old Madge, and then burst into a ringing laugh when the crone would shake her head, under the impression, no doubt, that she was being addressed in Russian. She never went more than a few yards from the house, and indeed never put her foot over the threshold without looking carefully out of each window in order to be sure that there was nobody about. By this I knew that she suspected that her fellow-countryman was still in the neighbourhood, and feared that he might attempt to carry her off. She did something else which was significant. I had an old revolver with some cartridges, which had been thrown away among the rubbish. She found this one day, and at once proceeded to clean it and oil it. She hung it up near the door, with the cartridges in a little bag beside it, and whenever I went for a walk, she would take it down and insist upon my carrying it with me. In my absence she would always bolt the door. Apart from her apprehensions she seemed fairly happy, busying herself in helping Madge when she was not attending upon me. She was wonderfully nimble-fingered and natty in all domestic duties. It was not long before I discovered that her suspicions were well founded, and that this man from Archangel was still lurking in the vicinity. Being restless one night I rose and peered out of the window. The weather was somewhat cloudy, and I could barely make out the line of the sea, and the loom of my boat upon the beach. As I gazed, however, and my eyes became accustomed to the obscurity, I became aware that there was some other dark blur upon the sands, and that in front of my very door, where certainly there had been nothing of the sort the preceding night. As I stood at my diamond-paned lattice, still peering and peeping to make out what this might be, a great bank of clouds rolled slowly away from the face of the moon, and a flood of cold, clear light was poured down upon the silent bay and the long sweep of its desolate shores. Then I saw what this was which haunted my doorstep. It was he, the Russian. He squatted there like a gigantic toad, with his legs doubled under him in strange Mongolian fashion, and his eyes fixed apparently upon the window of the room in which the young girl and the housekeeper slept. The light fell upon his upturned face, and I saw once more the hawk-like grace of his countenance, with the single deeply-indented line of care upon his brow, and the protruding beard which marks the passionate nature. My first impulse was to shoot him as a trespasser, but, as I gazed, my resentment changed into pity and contempt "Poor fool," I said to myself, "is it then possible that you, whom I have seen looking open-eyed at present death, should have your whole thoughts and ambitions centred upon this wretched slip of a girl--a girl, too, who flies from you and hates you? Most women would love you--were it but for that dark face and great handsome body of yours--and yet you must needs hanker after the one in a thousand who will have no traffic with you." As I returned to my bed I chuckled much to myself over this thought. I knew that my bars were strong and my bolts thick. It mattered little to me whether this strange man spent his night at my door or a hundred leagues off, so long as he was gone by the morning. As I expected, when I rose and went out, there was no sign of him, nor had he left any trace of his midnight vigil. It was not long, however, before I saw him again. I had been out for a row one morning, for my head was aching, partly from prolonged stooping, and partly from the effects of a noxious drug which I had inhaled the night before. I pulled along the coast some miles, and then, feeling thirsty, I landed at a place where I knew that a fresh water stream trickled down into the sea. This rivulet passed through my land, but the mouth of it, where I found myself that day, was beyond my boundary line. I felt somewhat taken aback when rising from the stream at which I had slaked my thirst I found myself face to face with the Russian. I was as much a trespasser now as he was, and I could see at a glance that he knew it. "I wish to speak a few words to you," he said gravely. "Hurry up, then!" I answered, glancing at my watch. "I have no time to listen to chatter." "Chatter!" he repeated angrily. "Ah, but there. You Scotch people are strange men. Your face is hard and your words rough, but so are those of the good fishermen with whom I stay, yet I find that beneath it all there lie kind honest natures. No doubt you are kind and good, too, in spite of your roughness." "In the name of the devil," I said, "say your say, and go your way. I am weary of the sight of you." "Can I not soften you in any way?" he cried. "Ah, see--see here"--he produced a small Grecian cross from inside his velvet jacket. "Look at this. Our religions may differ in form, but at least we have some common thoughts and feelings when we see this emblem." "I am not so sure of that," I answered. He looked at me thoughtfully. "You are a very strange man," he said at last. "I cannot understand you. You still stand between me and Sophie. It is a dangerous position to take, sir. Oh, believe me, before it is too late. If you did but know what I have done to gain that woman--how I have risked my body, how I have lost my soul! You are a small obstacle to some which I have surmounted--you, whom a rip with a knife, or a blow from a stone, would put out of my way for ever. But God preserve me from that," he cried wildly. "I am deep--too deep--already. Anything rather than that." "You would do better to go back to your country," I said, "than to skulk about these sand-hills and disturb my leisure. When I have proof that you have gone away I shall hand this woman over to the protection of the Russian Consul at Edinburgh. Until then, I shall guard her myself, and not you, nor any Muscovite that ever breathed, shall take her from me." "And what is your object in keeping me from Sophie?" he asked. "Do you imagine that I would injure her? Why man, I would give my life freely to save her from the slightest harm. Why do you do this thing?" "I do it because it is my good pleasure to act so," I answered. "I give no man reasons for my conduct." "Look here!" he cried, suddenly blazing into fury, and advancing towards me with his shaggy mane bristling and his brown hands clenched. "If I thought you had one dishonest thought towards this girl--if for a moment I had reason to believe that you had any base motive for detaining her--as sure as there is a God in Heaven I should drag the heart out of your bosom with my hands." The very idea seemed to have put the man in a frenzy, for his face was all distorted and his hands opened and shut convulsively. I thought that he was about to spring at my throat. "Stand off," I said, putting my hand on my pistol. "If you lay a finger on me I shall kill you." He put his hand into his pocket, and for a moment I thought he was about to produce a weapon too, but instead of that he whipped out a cigarette and lit it, breathing the smoke rapidly into his lungs. No doubt he had found by experience that this was the most effectual way of curbing his passions. "I told you," he said in a quieter voice, "that my name is Ourganeff--Alexis Ourganeff. I am a Finn by birth, but I have spent my life in every part of the world. I was one who could never be still, nor settle down to a quiet existence. After I came to own my own ship there is hardly a port from Archangel to Australia which I have not entered. I was rough and wild and free, but there was one at home, sir, who was prim and white-handed and soft-tongued, skilful in little fancies and conceits which women love. This youth by his wiles and tricks stole from me the love of the girl whom I had ever marked as my own, and who up to that time had seemed in some sort inclined to return my passion. I had been on a voyage to Hammerfest for ivory, and coming back unexpectedly I learned that my pride and treasure was to be married to this soft-skinned boy, and that the party had actually gone to the church. In such moments, sir, something gives way in my head, and I hardly know what I do. I landed with a boat's crew--all men who had sailed with me for years, and who were as true as steel. We went up to the church. They were standing, she and he, before the priest, but the thing had not been done. I dashed between them and caught her round the waist. My men beat back the frightened bridegroom and the lookers on. We bore her down to the boat and aboard our vessel, and then getting up anchor we sailed away across the White Sea until the spires of Archangel sank down behind the horizon. She had my cabin, my room, every comfort. I slept among the men in the forecastle. I hoped that in time her aversion to me would wear away, and that she would consent to marry me in England or in France. For days and days we sailed. We saw the North Cape die away behind us, and we skirted the grey Norwegian coast, but still, in spite of every attention, she would not forgive me for tearing her from that pale-faced lover of hers. Then came this cursed storm which shattered both my ship and my hopes, and has deprived me even of the sight of the woman for whom I have risked so much. Perhaps she may learn to love me yet. You, sir," he said wistfully, "look like one who has seen much of the world. Do you not think that she may come to forget this man and to love me?" "I am tired of your story," I said, turning away. "For my part, I think you are a great fool. If you imagine that this love of yours will pass away you had best amuse yourself as best you can until it does. If, on the other hand, it is a fixed thing, you cannot do better than cut your throat, for that is the shortest way out of it. I have no more time to waste on the matter." With this I hurried away and walked down to the boat. I never looked round, but I heard the dull sound of his feet upon the sands as he followed me. "I have told you the beginning of my story," he said, "and you shall know the end some day. You would do well to let the girl go." I never answered him, but pushed the boat off. When I had rowed some distance out I looked back and saw his tall figure upon the yellow sand as he stood gazing thoughtfully after me. When I looked again some minutes later he had disappeared. For a long time after this my life was as regular and as monotonous as it had been before the shipwreck. At times I hoped that the man from Archangel had gone away altogether, but certain footsteps which I saw upon the sand, and more particularly a little pile of cigarette ash which I found one day behind a hillock from which a view of the house might be obtained, warned me that, though invisible, he was still in the vicinity. My relations with the Russian girl remained the same as before. Old Madge had been somewhat jealous of her presence at first, and seemed to fear that what little authority she had would be taken away from her. By degrees, however, as she came to realise my utter indifference, she became reconciled to the situation, and, as I have said before, profited by it, as our visitor performed much of the domestic work. And now I am coming near the end of this narrative of mine, which I have written a great deal more for my own amusement than for that of any one else. The termination of the strange episode in which these two Russians had played a part was as wild and as sudden as the commencement. The events of one single night freed me from all my troubles, and left me once more alone with my books and my studies, as I had been before their intrusion. Let me endeavour to describe how this came about. I had had a long day of heavy and wearying work, so that in the evening I determined upon taking a long walk. When I emerged from the house my attention was attracted by the appearance of the sea. It lay like a sheet of glass, so that never a ripple disturbed its surface. Yet the air was filled with that indescribable moaning sound which I have alluded to before--a sound as though the spirits of all those who lay beneath those treacherous waters were sending a sad warning of coming troubles to their brethren in the flesh. The fishermen's wives along that coast know the eerie sound, and look anxiously across the waters for the brown sails making for the land. When I heard it I stepped back into the house and looked at the glass. It was down below 29°. Then I knew that a wild night was coming upon us. Underneath the hills where I walked that evening it was dull and chill, but their summits were rosy-red, and the sea was brightened by the sinking sun. There were no clouds of importance in the sky, yet the dull groaning of the sea grew louder and stronger. I saw, far to the eastward, a brig beating up for Wick, with a reef in her topsails. It was evident that her captain had read the signs of nature as I had done. Behind her a long, lurid haze lay low upon the water, concealing the horizon. "I had better push on," I thought to myself, "or the wind may rise before I can get back." I suppose I must have been at least half a mile from the house when I suddenly stopped and listened breathlessly. My ears were so accustomed to the noises of nature, the sighing of the breeze and the sob of the waves, that any other sound made itself heard at a great distance. I waited, listening with all my ears. Yes, there it was again--a long-drawn, shrill cry of despair, ringing over the sands and echoed back from the hills behind me--a piteous appeal for aid. It came from the direction of my house. I turned and ran back homewards at the top of my speed, ploughing through the sand, racing over the shingle. In my mind there was a great dim perception of what had occurred. About a quarter of a mile from the house there is a high sand-hill, from which the whole country round is visible. When I reached the top of this I paused for a moment. There was the old grey building--there the boat. Everything seemed to be as I had left it. Even as I gazed, however, the shrill scream was repeated, louder than before, and the next moment a tall figure emerged from my door, the figure of the Russian sailor. Over his shoulder was the white form of the young girl, and even in his haste he seemed to bear her tenderly and with gentle reverence. I could hear her wild cries and see her desperate struggles to break away from him. Behind the couple came my old housekeeper, staunch and true, as the aged dog, who can no longer bite, still snarls with toothless gums at the intruder. She staggered feebly along at the heels of the ravisher, waving her long, thin arms, and hurling, no doubt, volleys of Scotch curses and imprecations at his head. I saw at a glance that he was making for the boat. A sudden hope sprang up in my soul that I might be in time to intercept him. I ran for the beach at the top of my speed. As I ran I slipped a cartridge into my revolver. This I determined should be the last of these invasions. I was too late. By the time I reached the water's edge he was a hundred yards away, making the boat spring with every stroke of his powerful arms. I uttered a wild cry of impotent anger, and stamped up and down the sands like a maniac. He turned and saw me. Rising from his seat he made me a graceful bow, and waved his hand to me. It was not a triumphant or a derisive gesture. Even my furious and distempered mind recognised it as being a solemn and courteous leave-taking. Then he settled down to his oars once more, and the little skiff shot away out over the bay. The sun had gone down now, leaving a single dull, red streak upon the water, which stretched away until it blended with the purple haze on the horizon. Gradually the skiff grew smaller and smaller as it sped across this lurid band, until the shades of night gathered round it and it became a mere blur upon the lonely sea. Then this vague loom died away also and darkness settled over it--a darkness which should never be raised. And why did I pace the solitary shore, hot and wrathful as a wolf whose whelp has been torn from it? Was it that I loved this Muscovite girl? No--a thousand times no. I am not one who, for the sake of a white skin or a blue eye, would belie my own life, and change the whole tenor of my thoughts and existence. My heart was untouched. But my pride--ah, there I had been cruelly wounded. To think that I had been unable to afford protection to the helpless one who craved it of me, and who relied on me! It was that which made my heart sick and sent the blood buzzing through my ears. That night a great wind rose up from the sea, and the wild waves shrieked upon the shore as though they would tear it back with them into the ocean. The turmoil and the uproar were congenial to my vexed spirit. All night I wandered up and down, wet with spray and rain, watching the gleam of the white breakers and listening to the outcry of the storm. My heart was bitter against the Russian. I joined my feeble pipe to the screaming of the gale. "If he would but come back again!" I cried, with clenched hands; "if he would but come back!" He came back. When the grey light of morning spread over the eastern sky, and lit up the great waste of yellow, tossing waters, with the brown clouds drifting swiftly over them, then I saw him once again. A few hundred yards off along the sand there lay a long dark object, cast up by the fury of the waves. It was my boat, much shattered and splintered. A little farther on, a vague, shapeless something was washing to and fro in the shallow water, all mixed with shingle and with seaweed. I saw at a glance that it was the Russian, face downwards and dead. I rushed into the water and dragged him up on to the beach. It was only when I turned him over that I discovered that she was beneath him, his dead arms encircling her, his mangled body still intervening between her and the fury of the storm. It seemed that the fierce German Sea might beat the life from him, but with all its strength it was unable to tear this one-idea'd man from the woman whom he loved. There were signs which led me to believe that during that awful night the woman's fickle mind had come at last to learn the worth of the true heart and strong arm which struggled for her and guarded her so tenderly. Why else should her little head be nestling so lovingly on his broad breast, while her yellow hair entwined itself with his flowing beard? Why too should there be that bright smile of ineffable happiness and triumph, which death itself had not had power to banish from his dusky face? I fancy that death had been brighter to him than life had ever been. Madge and I buried them there on the shores of the desolate northern sea. They lie in one grave deep down beneath the yellow sand. Strange things may happen in the world around them. Empires may rise and may fall, dynasties may perish, great wars may come and go, but, heedless of it all, those two shall embrace each other for ever and aye, in their lonely shrine by the side of the sounding ocean. I sometimes have thought that their spirits flit like shadowy sea-mews over the wild waters of the bay. No cross or symbol marks their resting-place, but old Madge puts wild flowers upon it at times, and when I pass on my daily walk and see the fresh blossoms scattered over the sand, I think of the strange couple who came from afar, and broke for a little space the dull tenor of my sombre life. V THE GREAT BROWN-PERICORD MOTOR It was a cold, foggy, dreary evening in May. Along the Strand blurred patches of light marked the position of the lamps. The flaring shop windows flickered vaguely with steamy brightness through the thick and heavy atmosphere. The high lines of houses which led down to the Embankment were all dark and deserted, or illuminated only by the glimmering lamp of the caretaker. At one point, however, there shone out from three windows upon the second floor a rich flood of light, which broke the sombre monotony of the terrace. Passers-by glanced up curiously, and drew each others' attention to the ruddy glare, for it marked the chambers of Francis Pericord, the inventor and electrical engineer. Long into the watches of the night the gleam of his lamps bore witness to the untiring energy and restless industry which was rapidly carrying him to the first rank in his profession. Within the chamber sat two men. The one was Pericord himself--hawk-faced and angular, with the black hair and brisk bearing which spoke of his Celtic origin. The other--thick, sturdy, and blue-eyed, was Jeremy Brown, the well-known mechanician. They had been partners in many an invention, in which the creative genius of the one had been aided by the practical abilities of the other. It was a question among their friends as to which was the better man. It was no chance visit which had brought Brown into Pericord's workshop at so late an hour. Business was to be done--business which was to decide the failure or success of months of work, and which might affect their whole careers. Between them lay a long brown table, stained and corroded by strong acids, and littered with giant carboys, Faure's accumulators, voltaic piles, coils of wire, and great blocks of nonconducting porcelain. In the midst of all this lumber there stood a singular whizzing, whirring machine, upon which the eyes of both partners were riveted. A small square metal receptacle was connected by numerous wires to a broad steel girdle, furnished on either side with two powerful projecting joints. The girdle was motionless, but the joints with the short arms attached to them flashed round every few seconds, with a pause between each rhythmic turn. The power which moved them came evidently from the metal box. A subtle odour of ozone was in the air. "How about the flanges, Brown?" asked the inventor. "They were too large to bring. They are seven foot by three. There is power enough there to work them however. I will answer for that." "Aluminium with an alloy of copper?" "Yes." "See how beautifully it works." Pericord stretched out a thin, nervous hand, and pressed a button upon the machine. The joints revolved more slowly, and came presently to a dead stop. Again he touched a spring and the arms shivered and woke up again into their crisp metallic life. "The experimenter need not exert his muscular powers," he remarked. "He has only to be passive, and use his intelligence." "Thanks to my motor," said Brown. "_Our_ motor," the other broke in sharply. "Oh, of course," said his colleague impatiently. "The motor which you thought of, and which I reduced to practice--call it what you like." "I call it the Brown-Pericord Motor," cried the inventor, with an angry flash of his dark eyes. "You worked out the details, but the abstract thought is mine, and mine alone." "An abstract thought won't turn an engine," said Brown doggedly. "That was why I took you into partnership," the other retorted, drumming nervously with his fingers upon the table. "I invent, you build. It is a fair division of labour." Brown pursed up his lips, as though by no means satisfied upon the point. Seeing, however, that further argument was useless, he turned his attention to the machine, which was shivering and rocking with each swing of its arms, as though a very little more would send it skimming from the table. "Is it not splendid?" cried Pericord. "It is satisfactory," said the more phlegmatic Anglo-Saxon. "There's immortality in it!" "There's money in it!" "Our names will go down with Montgolfier's." "With Rothschild's, I hope." "No, no, Brown; you take too material a view," cried the inventor, raising his gleaming eyes from the machine to his companion. "Our fortunes are a mere detail. Money is a thing which every heavy-witted plutocrat in the country shares with us. My hopes rise to something higher than that. Our true reward will come in the gratitude and goodwill of the human race." Brown shrugged his shoulders. "You may have my share of that," he said. "I am a practical man. We must test our invention." "Where can we do it?" "That is what I wanted to speak about. It must be absolutely secret. If we had private grounds of our own it would be an easy matter, but there is no privacy in London." "We must take it into the country." "I have a suggestion to offer," said Brown. "My brother has a place in Sussex on the high land near Beachy Head. There is, I remember, a large and lofty barn near the house. Will is in Scotland, but the key is always at my disposal. Why not take the machine down to-morrow and test it in the barn?" "Nothing could be better." "There is a train to Eastbourne at one." "I shall be at the station." "Bring the gear with you, and I will bring the flanges," said the mechanician, rising. "To-morrow will prove whether we have been following a shadow, or whether fortune is at our feet. One o'clock at Victoria." He walked swiftly down the stair and was quickly reabsorbed into the flood of comfortless clammy humanity which ebbed and flowed along the Strand. * * * * * The morning was bright and spring-like. A pale blue sky arched over London, with a few gauzy white clouds drifting lazily across it. At eleven o'clock Brown might have been seen entering the Patent Office with a great roll of parchment, diagrams, and plans under his arm. At twelve he emerged again smiling, and, opening his pocket-book, he packed away very carefully a small slip of official blue paper. At five minutes to one his cab rolled into Victoria Station. Two giant canvas-covered parcels, like enormous kites, were handed down by the cabman from the top, and consigned to the care of a guard. On the platform Pericord was pacing up and down, with long, eager step and swinging arms, a tinge of pink upon his sunken and sallow cheeks. "All right?" he asked. Brown pointed in answer to his baggage. "I have the motor and the girdle already packed away in the guard's van. Be careful, guard, for it is delicate machinery of great value. So! Now we can start with an easy conscience." At Eastbourne the precious motor was carried to a four-wheeler, and the great flanges hoisted on the top. A long drive took them to the house where the keys were kept, whence they set off across the barren Downs. The building which was their destination was a commonplace whitewashed structure, with straggling stables and out-houses, standing in a grassy hollow which sloped down from the edge of the chalk cliffs. It was a cheerless house even when in use, but now with its smokeless chimneys and shuttered windows it looked doubly dreary. The owner had planted a grove of young larches and firs around it, but the sweeping spray had blighted them, and they hung their withered heads in melancholy groups. It was a gloomy and forbidding spot. But the inventors were in no mood to be moved by such trifles. The lonelier the place, the more fitted for their purpose. With the help of the cabman they carried their packages down the footpath, and laid them in the darkened dining-room. The sun was setting as the distant murmur of wheels told them that they were finally alone. Pericord had thrown open the shutters and the mellow evening light streamed in through the discoloured windows. Brown drew a knife from his pocket and cut the pack-thread with which the canvas was secured. As the brown covering fell away it disclosed two great yellow metal fans. These he leaned carefully against the wall. The girdle, the connecting-bands, and the motor were then in turn unpacked. It was dark before all was set out in order. A lamp was lit, and by its light the two men continued to tighten screws, clinch rivets, and make the last preparations for their experiment. "That finishes it," said Brown at last, stepping back and surveying the machine. Pericord said nothing, but his face glowed with pride and expectation. "We must have something to eat," Brown remarked, laying out some provisions which he had brought with him. "Afterwards." "No, now," said the stolid mechanician. "I am half starved." He pulled up to the table and made a hearty meal, while his Celtic companion strode impatiently up and down, with twitching fingers and restless eyes. "Now then," said Brown, facing round, and brushing the crumbs from his lap, "who is to put it on?" "I shall," cried his companion eagerly. "What we do to-night is likely to be historic." "But there is some danger," suggested Brown. "We cannot quite tell how it may act." "That is nothing," said Pericord, with a wave of his hand. "But there is no use our going out of our way to incur danger." "What then? One of us must do it." "Not at all. The motor would act equally well if attached to any inanimate object." "That is true," said Pericord thoughtfully. "There are bricks by the barn. I have a sack here. Why should not a bagful of them take our place?" "It is a good idea. I see no objection." "Come on then," and the two sallied out, bearing with them the various sections of their machine. The moon was shining cold and clear though an occasional ragged cloud drifted across her face. All was still and silent upon the Downs. They stood and listened before they entered the barn, but not a sound came to their ears, save the dull murmur of the sea and the distant barking of a dog. Pericord journeyed backwards and forwards with all that they might need, while Brown filled a long narrow sack with bricks. When all was ready, the door of the barn was closed, and the lamp balanced upon an empty packing-case. The bag of bricks was laid upon two trestles, and the broad steel girdle was buckled round it. Then the great flanges, the wires, and the metal box containing the motor were in turn attached to the girdle. Last of all a flat steel rudder, shaped like a fish's tail, was secured to the bottom of the sack. "We must make it travel in a small circle," said Pericord, glancing round at the bare high walls. "Tie the rudder down at one side," suggested Brown. "Now it is ready. Press the connection and off she goes!" Pericord leaned forward, his long sallow face quivering with excitement. His white nervous hands darted here and there among the wires. Brown stood impassive with critical eyes. There was a sharp burr from the machine. The huge yellow wings gave a convulsive flap. Then another. Then a third, slower and stronger, with a fuller sweep. Then a fourth which filled the barn with a blast of driven air. At the fifth the bag of bricks began to dance upon the trestles. At the sixth it sprang into the air, and would have fallen to the ground, but the seventh came to save it, and fluttered it forward through the air. Slowly rising, it flapped heavily round in a circle, like some great clumsy bird, filling the barn with its buzzing and whirring. In the uncertain yellow light of the single lamp it was strange to see the loom of the ungainly thing, flapping off into the shadows, and then circling back into the narrow zone of light. The two men stood for a while in silence. Then Pericord threw his long arms up into the air. "It acts!" he cried. "The Brown-Pericord Motor acts!" He danced about like a madman in his delight. Brown's eyes twinkled, and he began to whistle. "See how smoothly it goes, Brown!" cried the inventor. "And the rudder--how well it acts! We must register it to-morrow." His comrade's face darkened and set. "It _is_ registered," he said, with a forced laugh. "Registered?" said Pericord. "Registered?" He repeated the word first in a whisper, and then in a kind of scream. "Who has dared to register my invention?" "I did it this morning. There is nothing to be excited about. It is all right." "You registered the motor! Under whose name?" "Under my own," said Brown sullenly. "I consider that I have the best right to it." "And my name does not appear?" "No, but----" "You villain!" screamed Pericord. "You thief and villain! You would steal my work! You would filch my credit! I will have that patent back if I have to tear your throat out!" A sombre fire burned in his black eyes, and his hands writhed themselves together with passion. Brown was no coward, but he shrank back as the other advanced upon him. "Keep your hands off!" he said, drawing a knife from his pocket. "I will defend myself if you attack me. "You threaten me?" cried Pericord, whose face was livid with anger. "You are a bully as well as a cheat. Will you give up the patent?" "No, I will not." "Brown, I say, give it up!" "I will not. I did the work." Pericord sprang madly forward with blazing eyes and clutching fingers. His companion writhed out of his grasp, but was dashed against the packing-case, over which he fell. The lamp was extinguished, and the whole barn plunged into darkness. A single ray of moonlight shining through a narrow chink flickered over the great waving fans as they came and went. "Will you give up the patent, Brown?" There was no answer. "Will you give it up?" Again no answer. Not a sound save the humming and creaking overhead. A cold pang of fear and doubt struck through Pericord's heart. He felt aimlessly about in the dark and his fingers closed upon a hand. It was cold and unresponsive. With all his anger turned to icy horror he struck a match, set the lamp up, and lit it. Brown lay huddled up on the other side of the packing-case. Pericord seized him in his arms, and with convulsive strength lifted him across. Then the mystery of his silence was explained. He had fallen with his right arm doubled up under him, and his own weight had driven the knife deeply into his body. He had died without a groan. The tragedy had been sudden, horrible, and complete. Pericord sat silently on the edge of the case, staring blankly down, and shivering like one with the ague, while the great Brown-Pericord Motor boomed and hurtled above him. How long he sat there can never be known. It might have been minutes or it might have been hours. A thousand mad schemes flashed through his dazed brain. It was true that he had been only the indirect cause. But who would believe that? He glanced down at his blood-spattered clothing. Everything was against him. It would be better to fly than to give himself up, relying upon his innocence. No one in London knew where they were. If he could dispose of the body he might have a few days clear before any suspicion would be aroused. Suddenly a loud crash recalled him to himself. The flying sack had gradually risen with each successive circle until it had struck against the rafters. The blow displaced the connecting-gear, and the machine fell heavily to the ground. Pericord undid the girdle. The motor was uninjured. A sudden, strange thought flashed upon him as he looked at it. The machine had become hateful to him. He might dispose both of it and the body in a way that would baffle all human search. He threw open the barn door, and carried his companion out into the moonlight. There was a hillock outside, and on the summit of this he laid him reverently down. Then he brought from the barn the motor, the girdle and the flanges. With trembling fingers he fastened the broad steel belt round the dead man's waist. Then he screwed the wings into the sockets. Beneath he slung the motor-box, fastened the wires, and switched on the connection. For a minute or two the huge yellow fans flapped and flickered. Then the body began to move in little jumps down the side of the hillock, gathering a gradual momentum, until at last it heaved up into the air and soared heavily off in the moonlight. He had not used the rudder, but had turned the head for the south. Gradually the weird thing rose higher, and sped faster, until it had passed over the line of cliff, and was sweeping over the silent sea. Pericord watched it with a white drawn face, until it looked like a black bird with golden wings half shrouded in the mist which lay over the waters. * * * * * In the New York State Lunatic Asylum there is a wild-eyed man whose name and birth-place are alike unknown. His reason has been unseated by some sudden shock, the doctors say, though of what nature they are unable to determine. "It is the most delicate machine which is most readily put out of gear," they remark, and point, in proof of their axiom, to the complicated electric engines, and remarkable aeronautic machines which the patient is fond of devising in his more lucid moments. VI THE SEALED ROOM A solicitor of an active habit and athletic tastes who is compelled by his hopes of business to remain within the four walls of his office from ten till five must take what exercise he can in the evenings. Hence it was that I was in the habit of indulging in very long nocturnal excursions, in which I sought the heights of Hampstead and Highgate in order to cleanse my system from the impure air of Abchurch Lane. It was in the course of one of these aimless rambles that I first met Felix Stanniford, and so led up to what has been the most extraordinary adventure of my lifetime. One evening--it was in April or early May of the year 1894--I made my way to the extreme northern fringe of London, and was walking down one of those fine avenues of high brick villas which the huge city is for ever pushing farther and farther out into the country. It was a fine, clear spring night, the moon was shining out of an unclouded sky, and I, having already left many miles behind me, was inclined to walk slowly and look about me. In this contemplative mood, my attention was arrested by one of the houses which I was passing. It was a very large building, standing in its own grounds, a little back from the road. It was modern in appearance, and yet it was far less so than its neighbours, all of which were crudely and painfully new. Their symmetrical line was broken by the gap caused by the laurel-studded lawn, with the great, dark, gloomy house looming at the back of it. Evidently it had been the country retreat of some wealthy merchant, built perhaps when the nearest street was a mile off, and now gradually overtaken and surrounded by the red brick tentacles of the London octopus. The next stage, I reflected, would be its digestion and absorption, so that the cheap builder might rear a dozen eighty-pound-a-year villas upon the garden frontage. And then, as all this passed vaguely through my mind, an incident occurred which brought my thoughts into quite another channel. A four-wheeled cab, that opprobium of London, was coming jolting and creaking in one direction, while in the other there was a yellow glare from the lamp of a cyclist. They were the only moving objects in the whole long, moonlit road, and yet they crashed into each other with that malignant accuracy which brings two ocean liners together in the broad waste of the Atlantic. It was the cyclist's fault. He tried to cross in front of the cab, miscalculated his distance, and was knocked sprawling by the horse's shoulder. He rose, snarling; the cabman swore back at him, and then, realising that his number had not yet been taken, lashed his horse and lumbered off. The cyclist caught at the handles of his prostrate machine, and then suddenly sat down with a groan. "Oh, Lord!" he said. I ran across the road to his side. "Any harm done?" I asked. "It's my ankle," said he. "Only a twist, I think; but it's pretty painful. Just give me your hand, will you?" He lay in the yellow circle of the cycle lamp, and I noted as I helped him to his feet that he was a gentlemanly young fellow, with a slight dark moustache and large, brown eyes, sensitive and nervous in appearance, with indications of weak health upon his sunken cheeks. Work or worry had left its traces upon his thin, yellow face. He stood up when I pulled his hand, but he held one foot in the air, and he groaned as he moved it. "I can't put it to the ground," said he. "Where do you live?" "Here!" he nodded his head towards the big, dark house in the garden. "I was cutting across to the gate when that confounded cab ran into me. Could you help me so far?" It was easily done. I put his cycle inside the gate, and then I supported him down the drive, and up the steps to the hall door. There was not a light anywhere, and the place was as black and silent as if no one had ever lived in it. "That will do. Thank you very much," said he, fumbling with his key in the lock. "No, you must allow me to see you safe." He made some feeble, petulant protest, and then realised that he could really do nothing without me. The door had opened into a pitch-dark hall. He lurched forward, with my hand still on his arm. "This door to the right," said he, feeling about in the darkness. I opened the door, and at the same moment he managed to strike a light. There was a lamp upon the table, and we lit it between us. "Now, I'm all right. You can leave me now! Good-bye!" said he, and with the words he sat down in the arm-chair and fainted dead away. It was a queer position for me. The fellow looked so ghastly, that really I was not sure that he was not dead. Presently his lips quivered and his breast heaved, but his eyes were two white slits and his colour was horrible. The responsibility was more than I could stand. I pulled at the bell-rope, and heard the bell ringing furiously far away. But no one came in response. The bell tinkled away into silence, which no murmur or movement came to break. I waited, and rang again, with the same result. There must be some one about. This young gentleman could not live all alone in that huge house. His people ought to know of his condition. If they would not answer the bell, I must hunt them out myself. I seized the lamp and rushed from the room. What I saw outside amazed me. The hall was empty. The stairs were bare, and yellow with dust. There were three doors opening into spacious rooms, and each was uncarpeted and undraped, save for the grey webs which drooped from the cornice, and rosettes of lichen which had formed upon the walls. My feet reverberated in those empty and silent chambers. Then I wandered on down the passage, with the idea that the kitchens, at least, might be tenanted. Some caretaker might lurk in some secluded room. No, they were all equally desolate. Despairing of finding any help, I ran down another corridor, and came on something which surprised me more than ever. The passage ended in a large, brown door, and the door had a seal of red wax the size of a five-shilling piece over the key-hole. This seal gave me the impression of having been there for a long time, for it was dusty and discoloured. I was still staring at it, and wondering what that door might conceal, when I heard a voice calling behind me, and, running back, found my young man sitting up in his chair and very much astonished at finding himself in darkness. "Why on earth did you take the lamp away?" he asked. "I was looking for assistance." "You might look for some time," said he. "I am alone in the house." "Awkward if you get an illness." "It was foolish of me to faint. I inherit a weak heart from my mother, and pain or emotion has that effect upon me. It will carry me off some day, as it did her. You're not a doctor, are you?" "No, a lawyer. Frank Alder is my name." "Mine is Felix Stanniford. Funny that I should meet a lawyer, for my friend, Mr. Perceval, was saying that we should need one soon." "Very happy, I am sure." "Well, that will depend upon him, you know. Did you say that you had run with that lamp all over the ground floor?" "Yes." "_All_ over it?" he asked, with emphasis, and he looked at me very hard. "I think so. I kept on hoping that I should find some one." "Did you enter _all_ the rooms?" he asked, with the same intent gaze. "Well, all that I could enter." "Oh, then you _did_ notice it!" said he, and he shrugged his shoulders with the air of a man who makes the best of a bad job. "Notice, what?" "Why, the door with the seal on it." "Yes, I did." "Weren't you curious to know what was in it?" "Well, it did strike me as unusual." "Do you think you could go on living alone in this house, year after year, just longing all the time to know what is at the other side of that door, and yet not looking?" "Do you mean to say," I cried, "that you don't know yourself?" "No more than you do." "Then why don't you look?" "I mustn't," said he. He spoke in a constrained way, and I saw that I had blundered on to some delicate ground. I don't know that I am more inquisitive than my neighbours, but there certainly was something in the situation which appealed very strongly to my curiosity. However, my last excuse for remaining in the house was gone now that my companion had recovered his senses. I rose to go. "Are you in a hurry?" he asked. "No; I have nothing to do." "Well, I should be very glad if you would stay with me a little. The fact is that I live a very retired and secluded life here. I don't suppose there is a man in London who leads such a life as I do. It is quite unusual for me to have any one to talk with." I looked round at the little room, scantily furnished, with a sofa-bed at one side. Then I thought of the great, bare house, and the sinister door with the discoloured red seal upon it. There was something queer and grotesque in the situation, which made me long to know a little more. Perhaps I should, if I waited. I told him that I should be very happy. "You will find the spirits and a siphon upon the side table. You must forgive me if I cannot act as host, but I can't get across the room. Those are cigars in the tray there. I'll take one myself, I think. And so you are a solicitor, Mr. Alder?" "Yes." "And I am nothing. I am that most helpless of living creatures, the son of a millionaire. I was brought up with the expectation of great wealth; and here I am, a poor man, without any profession at all. And then, on the top of it all, I am left with this great mansion on my hands, which I cannot possibly keep up. Isn't it an absurd situation? For me to use this as my dwelling is like a coster drawing his barrow with a thoroughbred. A donkey would be more useful to him, and a cottage to me." "But why not sell the house?" I asked. "I mustn't." "Let it, then?" "No, I mustn't do that either." I looked puzzled, and my companion smiled. "I'll tell you how it is, if it won't bore you," said he. "On the contrary, I should be exceedingly interested." "I think, after your kind attention to me, I cannot do less than relieve any curiosity that you may feel. You must know that my father was Stanislaus Stanniford, the banker." Stanniford, the banker! I remembered the name at once. His flight from the country some seven years before had been one of the scandals and sensations of the time. "I see that you remember," said my companion. "My poor father left the country to avoid numerous friends, whose savings he had invested in an unsuccessful speculation. He was a nervous, sensitive man, and the responsibility quite upset his reason. He had committed no legal offence. It was purely a matter of sentiment. He would not even face his own family, and he died among strangers without ever letting us know where he was." "He died!" said I. "We could not prove his death, but we know that it must be so, because the speculations came right again, and so there was no reason why he should not look any man in the face. He would have returned if he were alive. But he must have died in the last two years." "Why in the last two years?" "Because we heard from him two years ago." "Did he not tell you then where he was living?" "The letter came from Paris, but no address was given. It was when my poor mother died. He wrote to me then, with some instructions and some advice, and I have never heard from him since." "Had you heard before?" "Oh, yes, we had heard before, and that's where our mystery of the sealed door, upon which you stumbled to-night, has its origin. Pass me that desk, if you please. Here I have my father's letters, and you are the first man except Mr. Perceval who has seen them." "Who is Mr. Perceval, may I ask?" "He was my father's confidential clerk, and he has continued to be the friend and adviser of my mother and then of myself. I don't know what we should have done without Perceval. He saw the letters, but no one else. This is the first one, which came on the very day when my father fled, seven years ago. Read it to yourself." This is the letter which I read: "MY EVER DEAREST WIFE,-- "Since Sir William told me how weak your heart is, and how harmful any shock might be, I have never talked about my business affairs to you. The time has come when at all risks I can no longer refrain from telling you that things have been going badly with me. This will cause me to leave you for a little time, but it is with the absolute assurance that we shall see each other very soon. On this you can thoroughly rely. Our parting is only for a very short time, my own darling, so don't let it fret you, and above all don't let it impair your health, for that is what I want above all things to avoid. "Now, I have a request to make, and I implore you by all that binds us together to fulfil it exactly as I tell you. There are some things which I do not wish to be seen by any one in my dark room--the room which I use for photographic purposes at the end of the garden passage. To prevent any painful thoughts, I may assure you once for all, dear, that it is nothing of which I need be ashamed. But still I do not wish you or Felix to enter that room. It is locked, and I implore you when you receive this to at once place a seal over the lock, and leave it so. Do not sell or let the house, for in either case my secret will be discovered. As long as you or Felix are in the house, I know that you will comply with my wishes. When Felix is twenty-one he may enter the room--not before. "And now, good-bye, my own best of wives. During our short separation you can consult Mr. Perceval on any matters which may arise. He has my complete confidence. I hate to leave Felix and you--even for a time--but there is really no choice. "Ever and always your loving husband, "STANISLAUS STANNIFORD. "_June 4th, 1887._" * * * * * "These are very private family matters for me to inflict upon you," said my companion apologetically. "You must look upon it as done in your professional capacity. I have wanted to speak about it for years." "I am honoured by your confidence," I answered, "and exceedingly interested by the facts." "My father was a man who was noted for his almost morbid love of truth. He was always pedantically accurate. When he said, therefore, that he hoped to see my mother very soon, and when he said that he had nothing to be ashamed of in that dark room, you may rely upon it that he meant it." "Then what can it be?" I ejaculated. "Neither my mother nor I could imagine. We carried out his wishes to the letter, and placed the seal upon the door; there it has been ever since. My mother lived for five years after my father's disappearance, although at the time all the doctors said that she could not survive long. Her heart was terribly diseased. During the first few months she had two letters from my father. Both had the Paris postmark, but no address. They were short and to the same effect: that they would soon be re-united, and that she should not fret. Then there was a silence, which lasted until her death; and then came a letter to me of so private a nature that I cannot show it to you, begging me never to think evil of him, giving me much good advice, and saying that the sealing of the room was of less importance now than during the lifetime of my mother, but that the opening might still cause pain to others, and that, therefore, he thought it best that it should be postponed until my twenty-first year, for the lapse of time would make things easier. In the meantime, he committed the care of the room to me; so now you can understand how it is that, although I am a very poor man, I can neither let nor sell this great house." "You could mortgage it." "My father had already done so." "It is a most singular state of affairs." "My mother and I were gradually compelled to sell the furniture and to dismiss the servants, until now, as you see, I am living unattended in a single room. But I have only two more months." "What do you mean?" "Why, that in two months I come of age. The first thing that I do will be to open that door; the second, to get rid of the house." "Why should your father have continued to stay away when these investments had recovered themselves?" "He must be dead." "You say that he had not committed any legal offence when he fled the country?" "None." "Why should he not take your mother with him?" "I do not know." "Why should he conceal his address?" "I do not know." "Why should he allow your mother to die and be buried without coming back?" "I do not know." "My dear sir," said I, "if I may speak with the frankness of a professional adviser, I should say that it is very clear that your father had the strongest reasons for keeping out of the country, and that, if nothing has been proved against him, he at least thought that something might be, and refused to put himself within the power of the law. Surely that must be obvious, for in what other possible way can the facts be explained?" My companion did not take my suggestion in good part. "You had not the advantage of knowing my father, Mr. Alder," he said coldly. "I was only a boy when he left us, but I shall always look upon him as my ideal man. His only fault was that he was too sensitive and too unselfish. That any one should lose money through him would cut him to the heart. His sense of honour was most acute, any theory of his disappearance which conflicts with that is a mistaken one." It pleased me to hear the lad speak out so roundly, and yet I knew that the facts were against him, and that he was incapable of taking an unprejudiced view of the situation. "I only speak as an outsider," said I. "And now I must leave you, for I have a long walk before me. Your story has interested me so much that I should be glad if you could let me know the sequel." "Leave me your card," said he; and so, having bade him "good-night," I left him. I heard nothing more of the matter for some time, and had almost feared that it would prove to be one of those fleeting experiences which drift away from our direct observation and end only in a hope or a suspicion. One afternoon, however, a card bearing the name of Mr. J. H. Perceval was brought up to my office in Abchurch Lane, and its bearer, a small, dry, bright-eyed fellow of fifty, was ushered in by the clerk. "I believe, sir," said he, "that my name has been mentioned to you by my young friend, Mr. Felix Stanniford?" "Of course," I answered, "I remember." "He spoke to you, I understand, about the circumstances in connection with the disappearance of my former employer, Mr. Stanislaus Stanniford, and the existence of a sealed room in his former residence." "He did." "And you expressed an interest in the matter." "It interested me extremely." "You are aware that we hold Mr. Stanniford's permission to open the door on the twenty-first birthday of his son?" "I remember." "The twenty-first birthday is to-day." "Have you opened it?" I asked eagerly. "Not yet, sir," said he gravely. "I have reason to believe that it would be well to have witnesses present when that door is opened. You are a lawyer, and you are acquainted with the facts. Will you be present on the occasion?" "Most certainly." "You are employed during the day, and so am I. Shall we meet at nine o'clock at the house?" "I will come with pleasure." "Then you will find us waiting for you. Good-bye, for the present." He bowed solemnly, and took his leave. I kept my appointment that evening, with a brain which was weary with fruitless attempts to think out some plausible explanation of the mystery which we were about to solve. Mr. Perceval and my young acquaintance were waiting for me in the little room. I was not surprised to see the young man looking pale and nervous, but I was rather astonished to find the dry little City man in a state of intense, though partially suppressed, excitement. His cheeks were flushed, his hands twitching, and he could not stand still for an instant. Stanniford greeted me warmly, and thanked me many times for having come. "And now, Perceval," said he to his companion, "I suppose there is no obstacle to our putting the thing through without delay? I shall be glad to get it over." The banker's clerk took up the lamp and led the way. But he paused in the passage outside the door, and his hand was shaking, so that the light flickered up and down the high, bare walls. "Mr. Stanniford," said he, in a cracking voice, "I hope you will prepare yourself in case any shock should be awaiting you when that seal is removed and the door is opened." "What could there be, Perceval? You are trying to frighten me." "No, Mr. Stanniford; but I should wish you to be ready ... to be braced up ... not to allow yourself ..." He had to lick his dry lips between every jerky sentence, and I suddenly realised, as clearly as if he had told me, that he knew what was behind that closed door, and that it _was_ something terrible. "Here are the keys, Mr. Stanniford, but remember my warning!" He had a bunch of assorted keys in his hand, and the young man snatched them from him. Then he thrust a knife under the discoloured seal and jerked it off. The lamp was rattling and shaking in Perceval's hands, so I took it from him and held it near the key-hole, while Stanniford tried key after key. At last one turned in the lock, the door flew open, he took one step into the room, and then, with a horrible cry, the young man fell senseless at our feet. If I had not given heed to the clerk's warning, and braced myself for a shock, I should certainly have dropped the lamp. The room, windowless and bare, was fitted up as a photographic laboratory, with a tap and sink at the side of it. A shelf of bottles and measures stood at one side, and a peculiar, heavy smell, partly chemical, partly animal, filled the air. A single table and chair were in front of us, and at this, with his back turned towards us, a man was seated in the act of writing. His outline and attitude were as natural as life; but as the light fell upon him, it made my hair rise to see that the nape of his neck was black and wrinkled, and no thicker than my wrist. Dust lay upon him--thick, yellow dust--upon his hair, his shoulders, his shrivelled, lemon-coloured hands. His head had fallen forward upon his breast. His pen still rested upon a discoloured sheet of paper. "My poor master! My poor, poor master!" cried the clerk, and the tears were running down his cheeks. "What!" I cried, "Mr. Stanislaus Stanniford!" "Here he has sat for seven years. Oh, why would he do it? I begged him, I implored him, I went on my knees to him, but he would have his way. You see the key on the table. He had locked the door upon the inside. And he has written something. We must take it." "Yes, yes, take it, and for God's sake, let us get out of this," I cried; "the air is poisonous. Come, Stanniford, come!" Taking an arm each, we half led and half carried the terrified man back to his own room. "It was my father!" he cried, as he recovered his consciousness. "He is sitting there dead in his chair. You knew it, Perceval! This was what you meant when you warned me." "Yes, I knew it, Mr. Stanniford. I have acted for the best all along, but my position has been a terribly difficult one. For seven years I have known that your father was dead in that room." "You knew it, and never told us!" "Don't be harsh with me, Mr. Stanniford, sir! Make allowance for a man who has had a hard part to play." "My head is swimming round. I cannot grasp it!" He staggered up, and helped himself from the brandy bottle. "These letters to my mother and to myself--were they forgeries?" "No, sir; your father wrote them and addressed them, and left them in my keeping to be posted. I have followed his instructions to the very letter in all things. He was my master, and I have obeyed him." The brandy had steadied the young man's shaken nerves. "Tell me about it. I can stand it now," said he. "Well, Mr. Stanniford, you know that at one time there came a period of great trouble upon your father, and he thought that many poor people were about to lose their savings through his fault. He was a man who was so tender-hearted that he could not bear the thought. It worried him and tormented him, until he determined to end his life. Oh, Mr. Stanniford, if you knew how I have prayed him and wrestled with him over it, you would never blame me! And he in turn prayed me as no man has ever prayed me before. He had made up his mind, and he would do it in any case, he said; but it rested with me whether his death should be happy and easy or whether it should be most miserable. I read in his eyes that he meant what he said. And at last I yielded to his prayers, and I consented to do his will. "What was troubling him was this. He had been told by the first doctor in London that his wife's heart would fail at the slightest shock. He had a horror of accelerating her end, and yet his own existence had become unendurable to him. How could he end himself without injuring her? "You know now the course that he took. He wrote the letter which she received. There was nothing in it which was not literally true. When he spoke of seeing her again so soon, he was referring to her own approaching death, which he had been assured could not be delayed more than a very few months. So convinced was he of this, that he only left two letters to be forwarded at intervals after his death. She lived five years, and I had no letters to send. "He left another letter with me to be sent to you, sir, upon the occasion of the death of your mother. I posted all these in Paris to sustain the idea of his being abroad. It was his wish that I should say nothing, and I have said nothing. I have been a faithful servant. Seven years after his death, he thought no doubt that the shock to the feelings of his surviving friends Would be lessened. He was always considerate for others." There was a silence for some time. It was broken by young Stanniford. "I cannot blame you, Perceval. You have spared my mother a shock, which would certainly have broken her heart. What is that paper?" "It is what your father was writing, sir. Shall I read it to you?" "Do so." "'I have taken the poison, and I feel it working in my veins. It is strange, but not painful. When these words are read I shall, if my wishes have been faithfully carried out, have been dead many years. Surely no one who has lost money through me will still bear me animosity. And you, Felix, you will forgive me this family scandal. May God find rest for a sorely wearied spirit!'" "Amen!" we cried, all three. TALES OF MEDICAL LIFE VII A PHYSIOLOGIST'S WIFE Professor Ainslie Grey had not come down to breakfast at the usual hour. The presentation chiming-clock which stood between the terra-cotta busts of Claude Bernard and of John Hunter upon the dining-room mantelpiece had rung out the half-hour and the three-quarters. Now its golden hand was verging upon the nine, and yet there were no signs of the master of the house. It was an unprecedented occurrence. During the twelve years that she had kept house for him, his younger sister had never known him a second behind his time. She sat now in front of the high silver coffee-pot, uncertain whether to order the gong to be resounded or to wait on in silence. Either course might be a mistake. Her brother was not a man who permitted mistakes. Miss Ainslie Grey was rather above the middle height, thin, with peering, puckered eyes, and the rounded shoulders which mark the bookish woman. Her face was long and spare, flecked with colour above the cheek-bones, with a reasonable, thoughtful forehead, and a dash of absolute obstinacy in her thin lips and prominent chin. Snow-white cuffs and collar, with a plain dark dress, cut with almost Quaker-like simplicity, bespoke the primness of her taste. An ebony cross hung over her flattened chest. She sat very upright in her chair, listening with raised eyebrows, and swinging her eye-glasses backwards and forwards with a nervous gesture which was peculiar to her. Suddenly she gave a sharp, satisfied jerk of the head, and began to pour out the coffee. From outside there came the dull thudding sound of heavy feet Upon thick carpet. The door swung open, and the Professor entered with a quick, nervous step. He nodded to his sister, and seating himself at the other side of the table, began to open the small pile of letters which lay beside his plate. Professor Ainslie Grey was at that time forty-three years of age--nearly twelve years older than his sister. His career had been a brilliant one. At Edinburgh, at Cambridge, and at Vienna he had laid the foundations of his great reputation, both in physiology and in zoology. His pamphlet, "On the Mesoblastic Origin of Excitomotor Nerve Roots," had won him his fellowship of the Royal Society; and his researches, "Upon the Nature of Bathybius, with some Remarks upon Lithococci," had been translated into at least three European languages. He had been referred to by one of the greatest living authorities as being the very type and embodiment of all that was best in modern science. No wonder, then, that when the commercial city of Birchespool decided to create a medical school, they were only too glad to confer the chair of physiology upon Mr. Ainslie Grey. They valued him the more from the conviction that their class was only one step in his upward journey, and that the first vacancy would remove him to some more illustrious seat of learning. In person he was not unlike his sister. The same eyes, the same contour, the same intellectual forehead. His lips, however, were firmer, and his long, thin lower jaw was sharper and more decided. He ran his finger and thumb down it from time to time, as he glanced over his letters. "Those maids are very noisy," he remarked, as a clack of tongues sounded in the distance. "It is Sarah," said his sister; "I shall speak about it." She had handed over his coffee-cup, and was sipping at her own, glancing furtively through her narrowed lids at the austere face of her brother. "The first great advance of the human race," said the Professor, "was when, by the development of their left frontal convolutions, they attained the power of speech. Their second advance was when they learned to control that power. Woman has not yet attained the second stage." He half closed his eyes as he spoke, and thrust his chin forward, but as he ceased he had a trick of suddenly opening both eyes very wide and staring sternly at his interlocutor. "I am not garrulous, John," said his sister. "No, Ada; in many respects you approach the superior or male type." The Professor bowed over his egg with the manner of one who utters a courtly compliment; but the lady pouted, and gave an impatient little shrug of her shoulders. "You were late this morning, John," she remarked, after a pause. "Yes, Ada; I slept badly. Some little cerebral congestion, no doubt due to over-stimulation of the centres of thought. I have been a little disturbed in my mind." His sister stared across at him in astonishment. The Professor's mental processes had hitherto been as regular as his habits. Twelve years' continual intercourse had taught her that he lived in a serene and rarefied atmosphere of scientific calm, high above the petty emotions which affect humbler minds. "You are surprised, Ada," he remarked. "Well, I cannot wonder at it. I should have been surprised myself if I had been told that I was so sensitive to vascular influences. For, after all, all disturbances are vascular if you probe them deep enough. I am thinking of getting married." "Not Mrs. O'James?" cried Ada Grey, laying down her egg-spoon. "My dear, you have the feminine quality of receptivity very remarkably developed. Mrs. O'James is the lady in question." "But you know so little of her. The Esdailes themselves know so little. She is really only an acquaintance, although she is staying at The Lindens. Would it not be wise to speak to Mrs. Esdaile first, John?" "I do not think, Ada, that Mrs. Esdaile is at all likely to say anything which would materially affect my course of action. I have given the matter due consideration. The scientific mind is slow at arriving at conclusions, but having once formed them, it is not prone to change. Matrimony is the natural condition of the human race. I have, as you know, been so engaged in academical and other work, that I have had no time to devote to merely personal questions. It is different now, and I see no valid reason why I should forego this opportunity of seeking a suitable helpmate." "And you are engaged?" "Hardly that, Ada. I ventured yesterday to indicate to the lady that I was prepared to submit to the common lot of humanity. I shall wait upon her after my morning lecture, and learn how far my proposals meet with her acquiescence. But you frown, Ada!" His sister started, and made an effort to conceal her expression of annoyance. She even stammered out some few words of congratulation, but a vacant look had come into her brother's eyes, and he was evidently not listening to her. "I am sure, John," she said, "that I wish you the happiness which you deserve. If I hesitated at all, it is because I know how much is at stake, and because the thing is so sudden, so unexpected." Her thin white hand stole up to the black cross upon her bosom. "These are moments when we need guidance, John. If I could persuade you to turn to spiritual----" The Professor waved the suggestion away with a deprecating hand. "It is useless to reopen that question," he said. "We cannot argue upon it. You assume more than I can grant. I am forced to dispute your premises. We have no common basis." His sister sighed. "You have no faith," she said. "I have faith in those great evolutionary forces which are leading the human race to some unknown but elevated goal." "You believe in nothing." "On the contrary, my dear Ada, I believe in the differentiation of protoplasm." She shook her head sadly. It was the one subject upon which she ventured to dispute her brother's infallibility. "This is rather beside the question," remarked the Professor, folding up his napkin. "If I am not mistaken, there is some possibility of another matrimonial event occurring in the family. Eh, Ada? What!" His small eyes glittered with sly facetiousness as he shot a twinkle at his sister. She sat very stiff, and traced patterns upon the cloth with the sugar-tongs. "Dr. James M'Murdo O'Brien----" said the Professor sonorously. "Don't, John, don't!" cried Miss Ainslie Grey. "Dr. James M'Murdo O'Brien," continued her brother inexorably, "is a man who has already made his mark upon the science of the day. He is my first and my most distinguished pupil. I assure you, Ada, that his 'Remarks upon the Bile-Pigments, with special reference to Urobilin,' is likely to live as a classic. It is not too much to say that he has revolutionised our views about Urobilin." He paused, but his sister sat silent, with bent head and flushed cheeks. The little ebony cross rose and fell with her hurried breathings. "Dr. James M'Murdo O'Brien has, as you know, the offer of the physiological chair at Melbourne. He has been in Australia five years, and has a brilliant future before him. To-day he leaves us for Edinburgh, and in two months' time he goes out to take over his new duties. You know his feeling towards you. It rests with you as to whether he goes out alone. Speaking for myself, I cannot imagine any higher mission for a woman of culture than to go through life in the company of a man who is capable of such a research as that which Dr. James M'Murdo O'Brien has brought to a successful conclusion." "He has not spoken to me," murmured the lady. "Ah, there are signs which are more subtle than speech," said her brother, wagging his head. "You are pale. Your vasomotor system is excited. Your arterioles have contracted. Let me entreat you to compose yourself. I think I hear the carriage. I fancy that you may have a visitor this morning, Ada. You will excuse me now." With a quick glance at the clock he strode off into the hall, and within a few minutes he was rattling in his quiet, well-appointed brougham through the brick-lined streets of Birchespool. His lecture over, Professor Ainslie Grey paid a visit to his laboratory, where he adjusted several scientific instruments, made a note as to the progress of three separate infusions of bacteria, cut half a dozen sections with a microtome, and finally resolved the difficulties of seven different gentlemen, who were pursuing researches in as many separate lines of inquiry. Having thus conscientiously and methodically completed the routine of his duties, he returned to his carriage and ordered the coachman to drive him to The Lindens. His face as he drove was cold and impassive, but he drew his fingers from time to time down his prominent chin with a jerky, twitchy movement. The Lindens was an old-fashioned, ivy-clad house which had once been in the country, but was now caught in the long, red-brick feelers of the growing city. It still stood back from the road in the privacy of its own grounds. A winding path, lined with laurel bushes, led to the arched and porticoed entrance. To the right was a lawn, and at the far side, under the shadow of a hawthorn, a lady sat in a garden-chair with a book in her hands. At the click of the gate she started, and the Professor, catching sight of her, turned away from the door, and strode in her direction. "What! won't you go in and see Mrs. Esdaile?" she asked, sweeping out from under the shadow of the hawthorn. She was a small woman, strongly feminine, from the rich coils of her light-coloured hair to the dainty garden slipper which peeped from under her cream-tinted dress. One tiny well-gloved hand was outstretched in greeting, while the other pressed a thick, green-covered volume against her side. Her decision and quick, tactful manner bespoke the mature woman of the world; but her upraised face had preserved a girlish and even infantile expression of innocence in its large, fearless grey eyes, and sensitive, humorous mouth. Mrs. O'James was a widow, and she was two-and-thirty years of age; but neither fact could have been deduced from her appearance. "You will surely go in and see Mrs. Esdaile," she repeated, glancing up at him with eyes which had in them something between a challenge and a caress. "I did not come to see Mrs. Esdaile," he answered, with no relaxation of his cold and grave manner; "I came to see you." "I am sure I should be highly honoured," she said, with just the slightest little touch of brogue in her accent. "What are the students to do without their Professor?" "I have already completed my academic duties. Take my arm, and we shall walk in the sunshine. Surely we cannot wonder that Eastern people should have made a deity of the sun. It is the great beneficent force of Nature--man's ally against cold, sterility, and all that is abhorrent to him. What were you reading?" "Hale's _Matter and Life_." The Professor raised his thick eyebrows. "Hale!" he said, and then again in a kind of whisper, "Hale!" "You differ from him?" she asked. "It is not I who differ from him. I am only a monad--a thing of no moment. The whole tendency of the highest plane of modern thought differs from him. He defends the indefensible. He is an excellent observer, but a feeble reasoner. I should not recommend you to found your conclusions upon 'Hale.'" "I must read _Nature's Chronicle_ to counteract his pernicious influence," said Mrs. O'James, with a soft, cooing laugh. _Nature's Chronicle_ was one of the many books in which Professor Ainslie Grey had enforced the negative doctrines of scientific agnosticism. "It is a faulty work," said he; "I cannot recommend it. I would rather refer you to the standard writings of some of my older and more eloquent colleagues." There was a pause in their talk as they paced up and down on the green, velvet-like lawn in the genial sunshine. "Have you thought at all," he asked at last, "of the matter upon which I spoke to you last night?" She said nothing, but walked by his side with her eyes averted and her face aslant. "I would not hurry you unduly," he continued. "I know that it is a matter which can scarcely be decided off-hand. In my own case, it cost me some thought before I ventured to make the suggestion. I am not an emotional man, but I am conscious in your presence of the great evolutionary instinct which makes either sex the complement of the other." "You believe in love, then?" she asked, with a twinkling, upward glance. "I am forced to." "And yet you can deny the soul?" "How far these questions are psychic and how far material is still _sub judice_," said the Professor, with an air of toleration. "Protoplasm may prove to be the physical basis of love as well as of life." "How inflexible you are!" she exclaimed; "you would draw love down to the level of physics." "Or draw physics up to the level of love." "Come, that is much better," she cried, with her sympathetic laugh. "That is really very pretty, and puts science in quite a delightful light." Her eyes sparkled, and she tossed her chin with a pretty, wilful air of a woman who is mistress of the situation. "I have reason to believe," said the Professor, "that my position here will prove to be only a stepping-stone to some wider scene of scientific activity. Yet, even here, my chair brings me in some fifteen hundred pounds a year, which is supplemented by a few hundreds from my books. I should therefore be in a position to provide you with those comforts to which you are accustomed. So much for my pecuniary position. As to my constitution, it has always been sound. I have never suffered from any illness in my life, save fleeting attacks of cephalalgia, the result of too prolonged a stimulation of the centres of cerebration. My father and mother had no sign of any morbid diathesis, but I will not conceal from you that my grandfather was afflicted with podagra." Mrs. O'James looked startled. "Is that very serious?" she asked. "It is gout," said the Professor. "Oh, is that all? It sounded much worse than that." "It is a grave taint, but I trust that I shall not be a victim to atavism. I have laid these facts before you because they are factors which cannot be overlooked in forming your decision. May I ask now whether you see your way to accepting my proposal?" He paused in his walk, and looked earnestly and expectantly down at her. A struggle was evidently going on in her mind. Her eyes were cast down, her little slipper tapped the lawn, and her fingers played nervously with her chatelain. Suddenly, with a sharp, quick gesture which had in it something of _abandon_ and recklessness, she held out her hand to her companion. "I accept," she said. They were standing under the shadow of the hawthorn. He stooped gravely down, and kissed her glove-covered fingers. "I trust that _you_ may never have cause to regret your decision," he said. "I trust that _you_ never may," she cried, with a heaving breast. There were tears in her eyes, and her lips twitched with some strong emotion. "Come into the sunshine again," said he. "It is the great restorative. Your nerves are shaken. Some little congestion of the medulla and pons. It is always instructive to reduce psychic or emotional conditions to their physical equivalents. You feel that your anchor is still firm in a bottom of ascertained fact." "But it is so dreadfully unromantic," said Mrs. O'James, with her old twinkle. "Romance is the offspring of imagination and of ignorance. Where science throws her calm, clear light there is happily no room for romance." "But is not love romance?" she asked. "Not at all. Love has been taken away from the poets, and has been brought within the domain of true science. It may prove to be one of the great cosmic elementary forces. When the atom of hydrogen draws the atom of chlorine towards it to form the perfected molecule of hydrochloric acid, the force which it exerts may be intrinsically similar to that which draws me to you. Attraction and repulsion appear to be the primary forces. This is attraction." "And here is repulsion," said Mrs. O'James, as a stout, florid lady came sweeping across the lawn in their direction. "So glad you have come out, Mrs. Esdaile! Here is Professor Grey." "How do you do, Professor?" said the lady, with some little pomposity of manner. "You were very wise to stay out here on so lovely a day. Is it not heavenly?" "It is certainly very fine weather," the Professor answered. "Listen to the wind sighing in the trees!" cried Mrs. Esdaile, holding up one finger. "It is Nature's lullaby. Could you not imagine it, Professor Grey, to be the whisperings of angels?" "The idea had not occurred to me, madam." "Ah, Professor, I have always the same complaint against you. A want of _rapport_ with the deeper meanings of Nature. Shall I say a want of imagination? You do not feel an emotional thrill at the singing of that thrush?" "I confess that I am not conscious of one, Mrs. Esdaile." "Or at the delicate tint of that background of leaves? See the rich greens!" "Chlorophyll," murmured the Professor. "Science is so hopelessly prosaic. It dissects and labels, and loses sight of the great things in its attention to the little ones. You have a poor opinion of woman's intellect, Professor Grey. I think that I have heard you say so." "It is a question of avoirdupois," said the Professor, closing his eyes and shrugging his shoulders. "The female cerebrum averages two ounces less in weight than the male. No doubt there are exceptions. Nature is always elastic." "But the heaviest thing is not always the strongest," said Mrs. O'James, laughing. "Isn't there a law of compensation in science? May we not hope to make up in quality what we lack in quantity?" "I think not," remarked the Professor gravely. "But there is your luncheon-gong. No, thank you, Mrs. Esdaile, I cannot stay. My carriage is waiting. Good-bye. Good-bye, Mrs. O'James." He raised his hat and stalked slowly away among the laurel bushes. "He has no taste," said Mrs. Esdaile--"no eye for beauty." "On, the contrary," Mrs. O'James answered, with a saucy little jerk of the chin. "He has just asked me to be his wife." * * * * * As Professor Ainslie Grey ascended the steps of his house, the hall-door opened and a dapper gentleman stepped briskly out. He was somewhat sallow in the face, with dark, beady eyes, and a short, black beard with an aggressive bristle. Thought and work had left their traces upon his face, but he moved with the brisk activity of a man who had not yet bade good-bye to his youth. "I'm in luck's way," he cried. "I wanted to see you." "Then come back into the library," said the Professor; "you must stay and have lunch with us." The two men entered the hall, and the Professor led the way into his private sanctum. He motioned his companion into an arm-chair. "I trust that you have been successful, O'Brien," said he. "I should be loath to exercise any undue pressure upon my sister Ada; but I have given her to understand that there is no one whom I should prefer for a brother-in-law to my most brilliant scholar, the author of 'Some Remarks upon the Bile-Pigments, with special reference to Urobilin.'" "You are very kind, Professor Grey--you have always been very kind," said the other. "I approached Miss Grey upon the subject; she did not say No." "She said Yes, then?" "No; she proposed to leave the matter open until my return from Edinburgh. I go to-day, as you know, and I hope to commence my research to-morrow." "On the comparative anatomy of the vermiform appendix, by James M'Murdo O'Brien," said the Professor sonorously. "It is a glorious subject--a subject which lies at the very root of evolutionary philosophy." "Ah, she is the dearest girl," cried O'Brien, with a sudden little spurt of Celtic enthusiasm--"she is the soul of truth and of honour." "The vermiform appendix----" began the Professor. "She is an angel from heaven," interrupted the other. "I fear that it is my advocacy of scientific freedom in religious thought which stands in my way with her." "You must not truckle upon that point. You must be true to your convictions; let there be no compromise there." "My reason is true to agnosticism, and yet I am conscious of a void--a vacuum. I had feelings at the old church at home between the scent of the incense and the roll of the organ, such as I have never experienced in the laboratory or the lecture-room." "Sensuous--purely sensuous," said the Professor, rubbing his chin. "Vague hereditary tendencies stirred into life by the stimulation of the nasal and auditory nerves." "Maybe so, maybe so," the younger man answered thoughtfully. "But this was not what I wished to speak to you about. Before I enter your family, your sister and you have a claim to know all that I can tell you about my career. Of my worldly prospects I have already spoken to you. There is only one point which I have omitted to mention. I am a widower." The Professor raised his eyebrows. "This is news indeed," said he. "I married shortly after my arrival in Australia. Miss Thurston was her name. I met her in society. It was a most unhappy match." Some painful emotion possessed him. His quick, expressive features quivered, and his white hands tightened upon the arms of the chair. The Professor turned away towards the window. "You are the best judge," he remarked; "but I should not think that it was necessary to go into details." "You have a right to know everything--you and Miss Grey. It is not a matter on which I can well speak to her direct. Poor Jinny was the best of women, but she was open to flattery, and liable to be misled by designing persons. She was untrue to me, Grey. It is a hard thing to say of the dead, but she was untrue to me. She fled to Auckland with a man whom she had known before her marriage. The brig which carried them foundered, and not a soul was saved." "This is very painful, O'Brien," said the Professor, with a deprecatory motion of his hand. "I cannot see, however, how it affects your relation to my sister." "I have eased my conscience," said O'Brien, rising from his chair; "I have told you all that there is to tell. I should not like the story to reach you through any lips but my own." "You are right, O'Brien. Your action has been most honourable and considerate. But you are not to blame in the matter, save that perhaps you showed a little precipitancy in choosing a life-partner without due care and inquiry." O'Brien drew his hand across his eyes. "Poor girl!" he cried. "God help me, I love her still. But I must go." "You will lunch with us?" "No, Professor; I have my packing still to do. I have already bade Miss Grey adieu. In two months I shall see you again." "You will probably find me a married man." "Married!" "Yes, I have been thinking of it." "My dear Professor, let me congratulate you with all my heart. I had no idea. Who is the lady?" "Mrs. O'James is her name--a widow of the same nationality as yourself. But to return to matters of importance, I should be very happy to see the proofs of your paper upon the vermiform appendix. I may be able to furnish you with material for a footnote or two." "Your assistance will be invaluable to me," said O'Brien, with enthusiasm, and the two men parted in the hall. The Professor walked back into the dining-room, where his sister was already seated at the luncheon-table. "I shall be married at the registrar's," he remarked; "I should strongly recommend you to do the same." Professor Ainslie Grey was as good as his word. A fortnight's cessation of his classes gave him an opportunity which was too good to let pass. Mrs. O'James was an orphan, without relations and almost without friends in the country. There was no obstacle in the way of a speedy wedding. They were married, accordingly, in the quietest manner possible, and went off to Cambridge together, where the Professor and his charming wife were present at several academic observances, and varied the routine of their honeymoon by incursions into biological laboratories and medical libraries. Scientific friends were loud in their congratulations, not only upon Mrs. Grey's beauty, but upon the unusual quickness and intelligence she displayed in discussing physiological questions. The Professor was himself astonished at the accuracy of her information. "You have a remarkable range of knowledge for a woman, Jeannette," he remarked upon more than one occasion. He was even prepared to admit that her cerebrum might be of the normal weight. One foggy, drizzling morning they returned to Birchespool, for the next day would reopen the session, and Professor Ainslie Grey prided himself upon having never once in his life failed to appear in his lecture-room at the very stroke of the hour. Miss Ada Grey welcomed them with a constrained cordiality, handed over the keys of office to the new mistress. Mrs. Grey pressed her warmly to remain, but she explained that she had already accepted an invitation which would engage her for some months. The same evening she departed for the south of England. A couple of days later the maid carried a card just after breakfast into the library where the Professor sat revising his morning lecture. It announced the rearrival of Dr. James M'Murdo O'Brien. Their meeting was effusively genial on the part of the younger man, and coldly precise on that of his former teacher. "You see there have been changes," said the Professor. "So I heard. Miss Grey told me in her letters, and I read the notice in the _British Medical Journal_. So it's really married you are. How quickly and quietly you have managed it all!" "I am constitutionally averse to anything in the nature of show or ceremony. My wife is a sensible woman--I may even go the length of saying that, for a woman, she is abnormally sensible. She quite agreed with me in the course which I have adopted." "And your research on Vallisneria?" "This matrimonial incident has interrupted it, but I have resumed my classes, and we shall soon be quite in harness again." "I must see Miss Grey before I leave England. We have corresponded, and I think that all will be well. She must come out with me. I don't think I could go without her." The Professor shook his head. "Your nature is not so weak as you pretend," he said. "Questions of this sort are, after all, quite subordinate to the great duties of life." O'Brien smiled. "You would have me take out my Celtic soul and put in a Saxon one," he said. "Either my brain is too small or my heart is too big. But when may I call and pay my respects to Mrs. Grey? Will she be at home this afternoon?" "She is at home now. Come into the morning-room. She will be glad to make your acquaintance." They walked across the linoleum-paved hall. The Professor opened the door of the room, and walked in, followed by his friend. Mrs. Grey was sitting in a basket-chair by the window, light and fairy-like in a loose-flowing, pink morning gown. Seeing a visitor, she rose and swept towards them. The Professor heard a dull thud behind him. O'Brien had fallen back into a chair, with his hand pressed tight to his side. "Jinny!" he gasped--"Jinny!" Mrs. Grey stopped dead in her advance, and stared at him with a face from which every expression had been struck out, save one of astonishment and horror. Then with a sharp intaking of the breath she reeled, and would have fallen had the Professor not thrown his long, nervous arm round her. "Try this sofa," said he. She sank back among the cushions with the same white, cold, dead look upon her face. The Professor stood with his back to the empty fireplace and glanced from the one to the other. "So, O'Brien," he said at last, "you have already made the acquaintance of my wife!" "Your wife," cried his friend hoarsely. "She is no wife of yours. God help me, she is _my_ wife." The Professor stood rigidly upon the hearth-rug. His long, thin fingers were intertwined, and his head had sunk a little forward. His two companions had eyes only for each other. "Jinny!" said he. "James!" "How could you leave me so, Jinny? How could you have the heart to do it? I thought you were dead. I mourned for your death--ay, and you have made me mourn for you living. You have withered my life." She made no answer, but lay back among the cushions with her eyes still fixed upon him. "Why do you not speak?" "Because you are right, James. I have treated you cruelly--shamefully. But it is not as bad as you think." "You fled with De Horta." "No, I did not. At the last moment my better nature prevailed. He went alone. But I was ashamed to come back after what I had written to you. I could not face you. I took passage alone to England under a new name, and here I have lived ever since. It seemed to me that I was beginning life again. I knew that you thought I was drowned. Who could have dreamed that Fate would throw us together again! When the Professor asked me----" She stopped and gave a gasp for breath. "You are faint," said the Professor--"keep the head low; it aids the cerebral circulation." He flattened down the cushion. "I am sorry to leave you, O'Brien; but I have my class duties to look to. Possibly I may find you here when I return." With a grim and rigid face he strode out of the room. Not one of the three hundred students who listened to his lecture saw any change in his manner and appearance, or could have guessed that the austere gentleman in front of them had found out at last how hard it is to rise above one's humanity. The lecture over, he performed his routine duties in the laboratory, and then drove back to his own house. He did not enter by the front door, but passed through the garden to the folding glass casement which led out of the morning-room. As he approached he heard his wife's voice and O'Brien's in loud and animated talk. He paused among the rose-bushes, uncertain whether to interrupt them or no. Nothing was further from his nature than to play the eavesdropper; but as he stood, still hesitating, words fell upon his ear which struck him rigid and motionless. "You are still my wife, Jinny," said O'Brien; "I forgive you from the bottom of my heart. I love you, and I have never ceased to love you, though you had forgotten me." "No, James, my heart was always in Melbourne. I have always been yours. I thought that it was better for you that I should seem to be dead." "You must choose between us now, Jinny. If you determine to remain here, I shall not open my lips. There shall be no scandal. If, on the other hand, you come with me, it's little I care about the world's opinion. Perhaps I am as much to blame as you are. I thought too much of my work and too little of my wife." The Professor heard the cooing, caressing laugh which he knew so well. "I shall go with you, James," she said. "And the Professor----?" "The poor Professor! But he will not mind much, James; he has no heart." "We must tell him our resolution." "There is no need," said Professor Ainslie Grey, stepping in through the open casement. "I have overheard the latter part of your conversation. I hesitated to interrupt you before you came to a conclusion." O'Brien stretched out his hand and took that of the woman. They stood together with the sunshine on their faces. The Professor paused at the casement with his hands behind his back and his long black shadow fell between them. "You have come to a wise decision," said he. "Go back to Australia together, and let what has passed be blotted out of your lives." "But you--you----" stammered O'Brien. The Professor waved his hand. "Never trouble about me," he said. The woman gave a gasping cry. "What can I do or say?" she wailed. "How could I have foreseen this? I thought my old life was dead. But it has come back again, with all its hopes and its desires. What can I say to you, Ainslie? I have brought shame and disgrace upon a worthy man. I have blasted your life. How you must hate and loathe me! I wish to God that I had never been born!" "I neither hate nor loathe you, Jeannette," said the Professor quietly. "You are wrong in regretting your birth, for you have a worthy mission before you in aiding the life-work of a man who has shown himself capable of the highest order of scientific research. I cannot with justice blame you personally for what has occurred. How far the individual monad is to be held responsible for hereditary and engrained tendencies, is a question upon which science has not yet said her last word." He stood with his finger-tips touching, and his body inclined as one who is gravely expounding a difficult and impersonal subject. O'Brien had stepped forward to say something, but the other's attitude and manner froze the words upon his lips. Condolence or sympathy would be an impertinence to one who could so easily merge his private griefs in broad questions of abstract philosophy. "It is needless to prolong the situation," the Professor continued, in the same measured tones. "My brougham stands at the door. I beg that you will use it as your own. Perhaps it would be as well that you should leave the town without unnecessary delay. Your things, Jeannette, shall be forwarded." O'Brien hesitated with a hanging head. "I hardly dare offer you my hand," he said. "On the contrary. I think that of the three of us you come best out of the affair. You have nothing to be ashamed of." "Your sister--" "I shall see that the matter is put to her in its true light. Good-bye! Let me have a copy of your recent research. Good-bye, Jeannette!" "Good-bye!" Their hands met, and for one short moment their eyes also. It was only a glance, but for the first and last time the woman's intuition cast a light for itself into the dark places of a strong man's soul. She gave a little gasp, and her other hand rested for an instant, as white and as light as thistle-down, upon his shoulder. "James, James!" she cried. "Don't you see that he is stricken to the heart?" He turned her quietly away from him. "I am not an emotional man," he said. "I have my duties--my research on Vallisneria. The brougham is there. Your cloak is in the hall. Tell John where you wish to be driven. He will faring you anything you need. Now go." His last two words were so sudden, so volcanic, in such contrast to his measured voice and mask-like face, that they swept the two away from him. He closed the door behind them and paced slowly up and down the room. Then he passed into the library and looked out over the wire blind. The carriage was rolling away. He caught a last glimpse of the woman who had been his wife. He saw the feminine droop of her head, and the curve of her beautiful throat. Under some foolish, aimless impulse, he took a few quick steps towards the door. Then he turned, and, throwing himself into his study chair, he plunged back into his work. * * * * * There was little scandal about this singular domestic incident. The Professor had few personal friends, and seldom went into society. His marriage had been so quiet that most of his colleagues had never ceased to regard him as a bachelor. Mrs. Esdaile and a few others might talk, but their field for gossip was limited, for they could only guess vaguely at the cause of this sudden separation. The Professor was as punctual as ever at his classes, and as zealous in directing the laboratory work of those who studied under him. His own private researches were pushed on with feverish energy. It was no uncommon thing for his servants, when they came down of a morning, to hear the shrill scratchings of his tireless pen, or to meet him on the staircase as he ascended, grey and silent, to his room. In vain his friends assured him that such a life must undermine his health. He lengthened his hours until day and night were one long, ceaseless task. Gradually under this discipline a change came over his appearance. His features, always inclined to gauntness, became even sharper and more pronounced. There were deep lines about his temples and across his brow. His cheek was sunken and his complexion bloodless. His knees gave under him when he walked; and once when passing out of his lecture-room he fell and had to be assisted to his carriage. This was just before the end of the session; and soon after the holidays commenced, the professors who still remained in Birchespool were shocked to hear that their brother of the chair of physiology had sunk so low that no hopes could be entertained of his recovery. Two eminent physicians had consulted over his case without being able to give a name to the affection from which he suffered. A steadily decreasing vitality appeared to be the only symptom--a bodily weakness which left the mind unclouded. He was much interested himself in his own case, and made notes of his subjective sensations as an aid to diagnosis. Of his approaching end he spoke in his usual unemotional and somewhat pedantic fashion. "It is the assertion," he said, "of the liberty of the individual cell as opposed to the cell-commune. It is the dissolution of a co-operative society. The process is one of great interest." And so one grey morning his co-operative society dissolved. Very quietly and softly he sank into his eternal sleep. His two physicians felt some slight embarrassment when called upon to fill in his certificate. "It is difficult to give it a name," said one. "Very," said the other. "If he were not such an unemotional man, I should have said that he had died from some sudden nervous shock--from, in fact, what the vulgar would call a broken heart." "I don't think poor Grey was that sort of a man at all." "Let us call it cardiac, anyhow," said the other physician. So they did so. VIII BEHIND THE TIMES My first interview with Dr. James Winter was under dramatic circumstances. It occurred at two in the morning in the bedroom of an old country house. I kicked him twice on the white waistcoat and knocked off his gold spectacles, while he, with the aid of a female accomplice, stifled my angry cries in a flannel petticoat and thrust me into a warm bath. I am told that one of my parents, who happened to be present, remarked in a whisper that there was nothing the matter with my lungs. I cannot recall how Dr. Winter looked at the time for I had other things to think of, but his description of my own appearance is far from flattering. A fluffy head, a body like a trussed goose, very bandy legs, and feet with the soles turned inwards--those are the main items which he can remember. From this time onwards the epochs of my life were the periodical assaults which Dr. Winter made upon me. He vaccinated me, he cut me for an abscess, he blistered me for mumps. It was a world of peace, and he the one dark cloud that threatened. But at last there came a time of real illness--a time when I lay for months together inside my wicker-work basket bed, and then it was that I learned that that hard face could relax, that those country-made, creaking boots could steal very gently to a bedside, and that that rough voice could thin into a whisper when it spoke to a sick child. And now the child is himself a medical man, and yet Dr. Winter is the same as ever. I can see no change since first I can remember him, save that perhaps the brindled hair is a trifle whiter, and the huge shoulders a little more bowed. He is a very tall man, though he loses a couple of inches from his stoop. That big back of his has curved itself over sick beds until it has set in that shape. His face is of a walnut brown, and tells of long winter drives over bleak country roads with the wind and the rain in his teeth. It looks smooth at a little distance, but as you approach him you see that it is shot with innumerable fine wrinkles, like a last year's apple. They are hardly to be seen when he is in repose, but when he laughs his face breaks like a starred glass, and you realise then that, though he looks old, he must be older than he looks. How old that is I could never discover. I have often tried to find out, and have struck his stream as high up as George the Fourth and even of the Regency, but without ever getting quite to the source. His mind must have been open to impressions very early, but it must also have closed early, for the politics of the day have little interest for him, while he is fiercely excited about questions which are entirely prehistoric. He shakes his head when he speaks of the first Reform Bill and expresses grave doubts as to its wisdom, and I have heard him, when he was warmed by a glass of wine, say bitter things about Robert Peel and his abandoning of the Corn Laws. The death of that statesman brought the history of England to a definite close, and Dr. Winter refers to everything which had happened since then as to an insignificant anti-climax. But it was only when I had myself become a medical man that I was able to appreciate how entirely he is a survival of a past generation. He had learned his medicine under that obsolete and forgotten system by which a youth was apprenticed to a surgeon, in the days when the study of anatomy was often approached through a violated grave. His views upon his own profession are even more reactionary than his politics. Fifty years have brought him little and deprived him of less. Vaccination was well within the teaching of his youth, though I think he has a secret preference for inoculation. Bleeding he would practise freely but for public opinion. Chloroform he regards as a dangerous innovation, and he always clicks with his tongue when it is mentioned. He has even been known to say vain things about Laennec, and to refer to the stethoscope as "a newfangled French toy." He carries one in his hat out of deference to the expectations of his patients; but he is very hard of hearing, so that it makes little difference whether he uses it or not. He always reads, as a duty, his weekly medical paper, so that he has a general idea as to the advance of modern science. He persists in looking upon it, however, as a huge and rather ludicrous experiment. The germ theory of disease set him chuckling for a long time, and his favourite joke in the sick-room was to say, "Shut the door, or the germs will be getting in." As to the Darwinian theory, it struck him as being the crowning joke of the century. "The children in the nursery and the ancestors in the stable," he would cry, and laugh the tears out of his eyes. He is so very much behind the day that occasionally, as things move round in their usual circle, he finds himself, to his own bewilderment, in the front of the fashion. Dietetic treatment, for example, had been much in vogue in his youth, and he has more practical knowledge of it than any one whom I have met. Massage, too, was familiar to him when it was new to our generation. He had been trained also at a time when instruments were in a rudimentary state and when men learned to trust more to their own fingers. He has a model surgical hand, muscular in the palm, tapering in the fingers, "with an eye at the end of each." I shall not easily forget how Dr. Patterson and I cut Sir John Sirwell, the County Member, and were unable to find the stone. It was a horrible moment. Both our careers were at stake. And then it was that Dr. Winter, whom we had asked out of courtesy to be present, introduced into the wound a finger which seemed to our excited senses to be about nine inches long, and hooked out the stone at the end of it. "It's always well to bring one in your waistcoat pocket," said he with a chuckle, "but I suppose you youngsters are above all that." We made him President of our Branch of the British Medical Association, but he resigned after the first meeting. "The young men are too much for me," he said. "I don't understand what they are talking about." Yet his patients do very well. He has the healing touch--that magnetic thing which defies explanation or analysis, but which is a very evident fact none the less. His mere presence leaves the patient with more hopefulness and vitality. The sight of disease affects him as dust does a careful housewife. It makes him angry and impatient. "Tut, tut, this will never do!" he cries, as he takes over a new case. He would shoo death out of the room as though he were an intrusive hen. But when the intruder refuses to be dislodged, when the blood moves more slowly and the eyes grow dimmer, then it is that Dr. Winter is of more avail than all the drugs in his surgery. Dying folk cling to his hand as if the presence of his bulk and vigour gives them more courage to face the change; and that kindly, wind-beaten face has been the last earthly impression which many a sufferer has carried into the unknown. When Dr. Patterson and I, both of us young, energetic, and up-to-date, settled in the district, we were most cordially received by the old doctor, who would have been only too happy to be relieved of some of his patients. The patients themselves, however, followed their own inclinations, which is a reprehensible way that patients have, so that we remained neglected with our modern instruments and our latest alkaloids, while he was serving out senna and calomel to all the country-side. We both of us loved the old fellow, but at the same time, in the privacy of our own intimate conversations, we could not help commenting upon this deplorable lack of judgment. "It is all very well for the poorer people," said Patterson, "but after all the educated classes have a right to expect that their medical man will know the difference between a mitral murmur and a bronchitic rale. It's the judicial frame of mind, not the sympathetic, which is the essential one." I thoroughly agreed with Patterson in what he said. It happened, however, that very shortly afterwards the epidemic of influenza broke out, and we were all worked to death. One morning I met Patterson on my round, and found him looking rather pale and fagged out. He made the same remark about me. I was in fact feeling far from well, and I lay upon the sofa all afternoon with a splitting headache and pains in every joint. As evening closed in I could no longer disguise the fact that the scourge was upon me, and I felt that I should have medical advice without delay. It was of Patterson naturally that I thought, but somehow the idea of him had suddenly become repugnant to me. I thought of his cold, critical attitude, of his endless questions, of his tests and his tappings. I wanted something more soothing--something more genial. "Mrs. Hudson," said I to my housekeeper, "would you kindly run along to old Dr. Winter and tell him that I should be obliged to him if he would step round." She was back with an answer presently. "Dr. Winter will come round in an hour or so, sir, but he has just been called in to attend Dr. Patterson." IX HIS FIRST OPERATION It was the first day of a winter session, and the third year's man was walking with the first year's man. Twelve o'clock was just booming out from the Tron Church. "Let me see," said the third year's man, "you have never seen an operation?" "Never." "Then this way, please. This is Rutherford's historic bar. A glass of sherry, please, for this gentleman. You are rather sensitive, are you not?" "My nerves are not very strong, I am afraid." "Hum! Another glass of sherry for this gentleman. We are going to an operation now, you know." The novice squared his shoulders and made a gallant attempt to look unconcerned. "Nothing very bad--eh?" "Well, yes--pretty bad." "An--an amputation?" "No, it's a bigger affair than that." "I think--I think they must be expecting me at home." "There's no sense in funking. If you don't go to-day you must to-morrow. Better get it over at once. Feel pretty fit?" "Oh, yes, all right." The smile was not a success. "One more glass of sherry, then. Now come on or we shall be late. I want you to be well in front." "Surely that is not necessary." "Oh, it is far better. What a drove of students! There are plenty of new men among them. You can tell them easily enough, can't you? If they were going down to be operated upon themselves they could not look whiter." "I don't think I should look as white." "Well, I was just the same myself. But the feeling soon wears off. You see a fellow with a face like plaster, and before the week is out he is eating his lunch in the dissecting rooms. I'll tell you all about the case when we get to the theatre." The students were pouring down the sloping street which led to the infirmary--each with his little sheaf of note-books in his hand. There were pale, frightened lads, fresh from the High Schools, and callous old chronics, whose generation had passed on and left them. They swept in an unbroken, tumultuous stream from the University gate to the hospital. The figures and gait of the men were young, but there was little youth in most of their faces. Some looked as if they ate too little--a few as if they drank too much. Tall and short, tweed coated and black, round-shouldered, bespectacled and slim, they crowded with clatter of feet and rattle of sticks through the hospital gate. Now and again they thickened into two lines as the carriage of a surgeon of the staff rolled over the cobblestones between. "There's going to be a crowd at Archer's," whispered the senior man with suppressed excitement. "It is grand to see him at work. I've seen him jab all round the aorta until it made me jumpy to watch him. This way, and mind the whitewash." They passed under an archway and down a long, stone-flagged corridor with drab-coloured doors on either side, each marked with a number. Some of them were ajar, and the novice glanced into them with tingling nerves. He was reassured to catch a glimpse of cheery fires, lines of white-counterpaned beds and a profusion of coloured texts upon the wall. The corridor opened upon a small hall with a fringe of poorly-clad people seated all round upon benches. A young man with a pair of scissors stuck, like a flower, in his button-hole, and a note-book in his hand, was passing from one to the other, whispering and writing. "Anything good?" asked the third year's man. "You should have been here yesterday," said the out-patient clerk, glancing up. "We had a regular field day. A popliteal aneurism, a Colles' fracture, a spina bifida, a tropical abscess, and an elephantiasis. How's that for a single haul?" "I'm sorry I missed it. But they'll come again, I suppose. What's up with the old gentleman?" A broken workman was sitting in the shadow, rocking himself slowly to and fro and groaning. A woman beside him was trying to console him, patting his shoulder with a hand which was spotted over with curious little white blisters. "It's a fine carbuncle," said the clerk, with the air of a connoisseur who describes his orchids to one who can appreciate them. "It's on his back, and the passage is draughty, so we must not look at it, must we, daddy? Pemphigus," he added carelessly, pointing to the woman's disfigured hands. "Would you care to stop and take out a metacarpal?" "No, thank you, we are due at Archer's. Come on;" and they rejoined the throng, which was hurrying to the theatre of the famous surgeon. The tiers of horseshoe benches, rising from the floor to the ceiling, were already packed, and the novice as he entered saw vague, curving lines of faces in front of him, and heard the deep buzz of a hundred voices and sounds of laughter from somewhere up above him. His companion spied an opening on the second bench, and they both squeezed into it. "This is grand," the senior man whispered; "you'll have a rare view of it all." Only a single row of heads intervened between them and the operating table. It was of unpainted deal, plain, strong and scrupulously clean. A sheet of brown waterproofing covered half of it, and beneath stood a large tin tray full of sawdust. On the farther side, in front of the window, there was a board which was strewed with glittering instruments, forceps, tenacula, saws, canulas, and trocars. A line of knives, with long, thin, delicate blades, lay at one side. Two young men lounged in front of this; one threading needles, the other doing something to a brass coffee-pot-like thing which hissed out puffs of steam. "That's Peterson," whispered the senior. "The big, bald man in the front row. He's the skin-grafting man, you know. And that's Anthony Browne, who took a larynx out successfully last winter. And there's Murphy the pathologist, and Stoddart the eye man. You'll come to know them all soon." "Who are the two men at the table?" "Nobody--dressers. One has charge of the instruments and the other of the puffing Billy. It's Lister's antiseptic spray, you know, and Archer's one of the carbolic acid men. Hayes is the leader of the cleanliness-and-cold-water school, and they all hate each other like poison." A flutter of interest passed through the closely-packed benches as a woman in petticoat and bodice was led in by two nurses. A red woollen shawl was draped over her head and round her neck. The face which looked out from it was that of a woman in the prime of her years, but drawn with suffering and of a peculiar bees-wax tint. Her head drooped as she walked, and one of the nurses, with her arm round her waist, was whispering consolation in her ear. She gave a quick side glance at the instrument table as she passed, but the nurses turned her away from it. "What ails her?" asked the novice. "Cancer of the parotid. It's the devil of a case, extends right away back behind the carotids. There's hardly a man but Archer would dare to follow it. Ah, here he is himself." As he spoke, a small, brisk, iron-grey man came striding into the room, rubbing his hands together as he walked. He had a clean-shaven face of the Naval officer type, with large, bright eyes, and a firm, straight mouth. Behind him came his big house surgeon with his gleaming pince-nez and a trail of dressers, who grouped themselves into the corners of the room. "Gentlemen," cried the surgeon in a voice as hard and brisk as his manner. "We have here an interesting case of tumour of the parotid, originally cartilaginous but now assuming malignant characteristics, and therefore requiring excision. On to the table, nurse! Thank you! Chloroform, clerk! Thank you! You can take the shawl off, nurse." The woman lay back upon the waterproofed pillow and her murderous tumour lay revealed. In itself it was a pretty thing, ivory white with a mesh of blue veins, and curving gently from jaw to chest. But the lean, yellow face, and the stringy throat were in horrible contrast with the plumpness and sleekness of this monstrous growth. The surgeon placed a hand on each side of it and pressed it slowly backwards and forwards. "Adherent at one place, gentlemen," he cried. "The growth involves the carotids and jugulars, and passes behind the ramus of the jaw, whither we must be prepared to follow it. It is impossible to say how deep our dissection may carry us. Carbolic tray, thank you! Dressings of carbolic gauze, if you please! Push the chloroform, Mr. Johnson. Have the small saw ready in case it is necessary to remove the jaw." The patient was moaning gently under the towel which had been placed over her face. She tried to raise her arms and to draw up her knees but two dressers restrained her. The heavy air was full of the penetrating smells of carbolic acid and of chloroform. A muffled cry came from under the towel and then a snatch of a song, sung in a high, quavering, monotonous voice. "He says, says he, If you fly with me You'll be mistress of the ice-cream van; You'll be mistress of the----" It mumbled off into a drone and stopped. The surgeon came across, still rubbing his hands, and spoke to an elderly man in front of the novice. "Narrow squeak for the Government," he said. "Oh, ten is enough." "They won't have ten long. They'd do better to resign before they are driven to it." "Oh, I should fight it out." "What's the use. They can't get past the committee, even if they get a vote in the House. I was talking to----" "Patient's ready, sir," said the dresser. "Talking to M'Donald--but I'll tell you about it presently." He walked back to the patient, who was breathing in long, heavy gasps. "I propose," said he, passing his hands over the tumour in an almost caressing fashion, "to make a free incision over the posterior border and to take another forward at right angles to the lower end of it. Might I trouble you for a medium knife, Mr. Johnson?" The novice, with eyes which were dilating with horror, saw the surgeon pick up the long, gleaming knife, dip it into a tin basin and balance it in his fingers as an artist might his brush. Then he saw him pinch up the skin above the tumour with his left hand. At the sight, his nerves, which had already been tried once or twice that day, gave way utterly. His head swam round and he felt that in another instant he might faint. He dared not look at the patient. He dug his thumbs into his ears lest some scream should come to haunt him, and he fixed his eyes rigidly upon the wooden ledge in front of him. One glance, one cry, would, he knew, break down the shred of self-possession which he still retained. He tried to think of cricket, of green fields and rippling water, of his sisters at home--of anything rather than of what was going on so near him. And yet, somehow, even with his ears stopped up, sounds seemed to penetrate to him and to carry their own tale. He heard, or thought that he heard, the long hissing of the carbolic engine. Then he was conscious of some movement among the dressers. Were there groans too breaking in upon him, and some other sound, some fluid sound, which was more dreadfully suggestive still? His mind would keep building up every step of the operation, and fancy made it more ghastly than fact could have been. His nerves tingled and quivered. Minute by minute the giddiness grew more marked, the numb, sickly feeling at his heart more distressing. And then suddenly, with a groan, his head pitching forward and his brow cracking sharply upon the narrow, wooden shelf in front of him, he lay in a dead faint. * * * * * When he came to himself he was lying in the empty theatre with his collar and shirt undone. The third year's man was dabbing a wet sponge over his face, and a couple of grinning dressers were looking on. "All right," cried the novice, sitting up and rubbing his eyes; "I'm sorry to have made an ass of myself." "Well, so I should think," said his companion. "What on earth did you faint about?" "I couldn't help it. It was that operation." "What operation?" "Why, that cancer." There was a pause, and then the three students burst out laughing. "Why, you juggins," cried the senior man, "there never was an operation at all. They found the patient didn't stand the chloroform well, and so the whole thing was off. Archer has been giving us one of his racy lectures, and you fainted just in the middle of his favourite story." X THE THIRD GENERATION Scudamore Lane, sloping down riverwards from just behind the Monument, lies at night in the shadow of two black and monstrous walls which loom high above the glimmer of the scattered gas-lamps. The footpaths are narrow, and the causeway is paved with rounded cobblestones so that the endless drays roar along it like so many breaking waves. A few old-fashioned houses lie scattered among the business premises, and in one of these--half-way down on the left-hand side--Dr. Horace Selby conducts his large practice. It is a singular street for so big a man, but a specialist who has a European reputation can afford to live where he likes. In his particular branch, too, patients do not always consider seclusion to be a disadvantage. It was only ten o'clock. The dull roar of the traffic which converged all day upon London Bridge had died away now to a mere confused murmur. It was raining heavily, and the gas shone dimly through the streaked and dripping glass, throwing little yellow circles upon the glistening cobblestones. The air was full of the sounds of rain, the thin swish of its fall, the heavier drip from the eaves, and the swirl and gurgle down the two steep gutters and through the sewer grating. There was only one figure in the whole length of Scudamore Lane. It was that of a man, and it stood outside the door of Dr. Horace Selby. He had just rung and was waiting for an answer. The fanlight beat full upon the gleaming shoulders of his waterproof and upon his upturned features. It was a wan, sensitive, clear-cut face, with some subtle, nameless peculiarity in its expression--something of the startled horse in the white-rimmed eye, something, too, of the helpless child in the drawn cheek and the weakening of the lower lip. The man-servant knew the stranger as a patient at a bare glance at those frightened eyes. Such a look had been seen at that door before. "Is the doctor in?" The man hesitated. "He has had a few friends to dinner, sir. He does not like to be disturbed outside his usual hours, sir." "Tell him that I _must_ see him. Tell him that it is of the very first importance. Here is my card." He fumbled with his trembling fingers in trying to draw one from the case. "Sir Francis Norton is the name. Tell him that Sir Francis Norton of Deane Park must see him at once." "Yes, sir." The butler closed his fingers upon the card and the half-sovereign which accompanied it. "Better hang your coat up here in the hall. It is very wet. Now, if you will wait here in the consulting-room I have no doubt that I shall be able to send the doctor in to you." It was a large and lofty room in which the young baronet found himself. The carpet was so soft and thick that his feet made no sound as he walked across it. The two gas-jets were turned only half-way up, and the dim light with the faint aromatic smell which filled the air had a vaguely religious suggestion. He sat down in a shining leather arm-chair by the smouldering fire and looked gloomily about him. Two sides of the room were taken up with books, fat and sombre, with broad gold lettering upon their backs. Beside him was the high, old-fashioned mantelpiece of white marble, the top of it strewed with cotton wadding and bandages, graduated measures and little bottles. There was one with a broad neck, just above him, containing bluestone, and another narrower one with what looked like the ruins of a broken pipe stem, and "Caustic" outside upon a red label. Thermometers, hypodermic syringes, bistouries and spatulas were scattered thickly about, both on the mantelpiece and on the central table on either side of the sloping desk. On the same table to the right stood copies of the five books which Dr. Horace Selby had written upon the subject with which his name is peculiarly associated, while on the left, on the top of a red medical directory, lay a huge glass model of a human eye, the size of a turnip, which opened down the centre to expose the lens and double chamber within. Sir Francis Norton had never been remarkable for his powers of observation, and yet he found himself watching these trifles with the keenest attention. Even the corrosion of the cork of an acid bottle caught his eye and he wondered that the doctor did not use glass stoppers. Tiny scratches where the light glinted off from the table, little stains upon the leather of the desk, chemical formulæ scribbled upon the labels of some of the phials--nothing was too slight to arrest his attention. And his sense of hearing was equally alert. The heavy ticking of the solemn black clock above the fireplace struck quite painfully upon his ears. Yet, in spite of it, and in spite also of the thick, old-fashioned, wooden partition walls, he could hear the voices of men talking in the next room and could even catch scraps of their conversation. "Second hand was bound to take it." "Why, you drew the last of them yourself." "How could I play the queen when I knew the ace was against me?" The phrases came in little spurts, falling back into the dull murmur of conversation. And then suddenly he heard a creaking of a door, and a step in the hall, and knew with a tingling mixture of impatience and horror that the crisis of his life was at hand. Dr. Horace Selby was a large, portly man, with an imposing presence. His nose and chin were bold and pronounced, yet his features were puffy--a combination which would blend more freely with the wig and cravat of the early Georges, than with the close-cropped hair and black frockcoat of the end of the nineteenth century. He was clean shaven, for his mouth was too good to cover, large, flexible and sensitive, with a kindly human softening at either corner, which, with his brown, sympathetic eyes, had drawn out many a shame-struck sinner's secret. Two masterful little bushy side whiskers bristled out from under his ears, spindling away upwards to merge in the thick curves of his brindled hair. To his patients there was something reassuring in the mere bulk and dignity of the man. A high and easy bearing in medicine, as in war, bears with it a hint of victories in the past, and a promise of others to come. Dr. Horace Selby's face was a consolation, and so, too, were the large, white, soothing hands, one of which he held out to his visitor. "I am sorry to have kept you waiting. It is a conflict of duties, you perceive. A host to his guests and an adviser to his patient. But now I am entirely at your disposal, Sir Francis. But, dear me, you are very cold." "Yes, I am cold." "And you are trembling all over. Tut, tut, this will never do. This miserable night has chilled you. Perhaps some little stimulant----" "No, thank you. I would really rather not. And it is not the night which has chilled me. I am frightened, doctor." The doctor half turned in his chair and patted the arch of the young man's knee as he might the neck of a restless horse. "What, then?" he asked, looking over his shoulder at the pale face with the startled eyes. Twice the young man parted his lips. Then he stooped with a sudden gesture and turning up the right leg of his trousers he pulled down his sock and thrust forward his shin. The doctor made a clicking noise with his tongue as he glanced at it. "Both legs?" "No, only one." "Suddenly?" "This morning." "Hum!" The doctor pouted his lips, and drew his finger and thumb down the line of his chin. "Can you account for it?" he said briskly. "No." A trace of sternness came into the large, brown eyes. "I need not point out to you that unless the most absolute frankness----" The patient sprang from his chair. "So help me God, doctor," he cried, "I have nothing in my life with which to reproach myself. Do you think that I would be such a fool as to come here and tell you lies? Once for all, I have nothing to regret." He was a pitiful, half-tragic, and half-grotesque figure as he stood with one trouser leg rolled to his knee, and that ever-present horror still lurking in his eyes. A burst of merriment came from the card-players in the next room and the two looked at each other in silence. "Sit down!" said the doctor abruptly. "Your assurance is quite sufficient." He stooped and ran his finger down the line of the young man's shin, raising it at one point. "Hum! Serpiginous!" he murmured, shaking his head; "any other symptoms?" "My eyes have been a little weak." "Let me see your teeth!" He glanced at them, and again made the gentle clicking sound of sympathy and disapprobation. "Now the eye!" He lit a lamp at the patient's elbow, and holding a small crystal lens to concentrate the light, he threw it obliquely upon the patient's eye. As he did so a glow of pleasure came over his large, expressive face, a flush of such enthusiasm as the botanist feels when he packs the rare plant into his tin knapsack, or the astronomer when the long-sought comet first swims into the field of his telescope. "This is very typical--very typical indeed," he murmured, turning to his desk and jotting down a few memoranda upon a sheet of paper. "Curiously enough I am writing a monograph upon the subject. It is singular that you should have been able to furnish so well marked a case." He had so forgotten the patient in his symptom that he had assumed an almost congratulatory air towards its possessor. He reverted to human sympathy again as his patient asked for particulars. "My dear sir, there is no occasion for us to go into strictly professional details together," said he soothingly. "If, for example, I were to say that you have interstitial keratitis, how would you be the wiser? There are indications of a strumous diathesis. In broad terms I may say that you have a constitutional and hereditary taint." The young baronet sank back in his chair and his chin fell forward upon his chest. The doctor sprang to a side table and poured out a half glass of liqueur brandy which he held to his patient's lips. A little fleck of colour came into his cheeks as he drank it down. "Perhaps I spoke a little abruptly," said the doctor. "But you must have known the nature of your complaint, why otherwise should you have come to me?" "God help me, I suspected it--but only to-day when my leg grew bad. My father had a leg like this." "It was from him, then?" "No, from my grandfather. You have heard of Sir Rupert Norton, the great Corinthian?" The doctor was a man of wide reading with a retentive memory. The name brought back to him instantly the remembrance of the sinister reputation of its owner--a notorious buck of the thirties, who had gambled and duelled and steeped himself in drink and debauchery until even the vile set with whom he consorted had shrunk away from him in horror, and left him to a sinister old age with the barmaid wife whom in some drunken frolic he had espoused. As he looked at the young man still leaning back in the leather chair, there seemed for the instant to flicker up behind him some vague presentiment of that foul old dandy with his dangling seals, many-wreathed scarf, and dark, satyric face. What was he now? An armful of bones in a mouldy box. But his deeds--they were living and rotting the blood in the veins of an innocent man. "I see that you have heard of him," said the young baronet. "He died horribly, I have been told, but not more horribly than he had lived. My father was his only son. He was a studious, man, fond of books and canaries and the country. But his innocent life did not save him." "His symptoms were cutaneous, I understand." "He wore gloves in the house. That was the first thing I can remember. And then it was his throat, and then his legs. He used to ask me so often about my own health, and I thought him so fussy, for how could I tell what the meaning of it was? He was always watching me--always with a sidelong eye fixed upon me. Now at last I know what he was watching for." "Had you brothers or sisters?" "None, thank God!" "Well, well, it is a sad case, and very typical of many which come in my way. You are no lonely sufferer, Sir Francis. There are many thousands who bear the same cross as you do." "But where's the justice of it, doctor?" cried the young man, springing from the chair and pacing up and down the consulting-room. "If I were heir to my grandfather's sins as well as to their results I could understand it, but I am of my father's type; I love all that is gentle and beautiful, music and poetry and art. The coarse and animal is abhorrent to me. Ask any of my friends and they would tell you that. And now that this vile, loathsome thing--Ach, I am polluted to the marrow, soaked in abomination! And why? Haven't I a right to ask why? Did I do it? Was it my fault? Could I help being born? And look at me now, blighted and blasted, just as life was at its sweetest! Talk about the sins of the father! How about the sins of the Creator!" He shook his two clenched hands in the air, the poor, impotent atom with his pinpoint of brain caught in the whirl of the infinite. The doctor rose and placing his hands upon his shoulders he pressed him back into his chair again. "There, there, my dear lad," said he. "You must not excite yourself! You are trembling all over. Your nerves cannot stand it. We must take these great questions upon trust. What are we after all? Half evolved creatures in a transition stage; nearer, perhaps, to the medusa on the one side than to perfected humanity on the other. With half a complete brain we can't expect to understand the whole of a complete fact, can we, now? It is all very dim and dark, no doubt, but I think Pope's famous couplet sums the whole matter up, and from my heart, after fifty years of varied experience, I can say that----" But the young baronet gave a cry of impatience and disgust. "Words, words, words! You can sit comfortably there in your chair and say them--and think them too, no doubt. You've had your life. But I've never had mine. You've healthy blood in your veins. Mine is putrid. And yet I am as innocent as you. What would words do for you if you were in this chair and I in that? Ah, it's such a mockery and a make-belief. Don't think me rude, though, doctor. I don't mean to be that. I only say that it is impossible for you or any man to realise it. But I've a question to ask you, doctor. It's one on which my whole life must depend." He writhed his fingers together in an agony of apprehension. "Speak out, my dear sir. I have every sympathy with you." "Do you think--do you think the poison has spent itself on me? Do you think if I had children that they would suffer?" "I can only give one answer to that. 'The third and fourth generation,' says the trite old text. You may in time eliminate it from your system, but many years must pass before you can think of marriage." "I am to be married on Tuesday," whispered the patient. It was Dr. Horace Selby's turn to be thrilled with horror. There were not many situations which would yield such a sensation to his well-seasoned nerves. He sat in silence while the babble of the card-table broke in again upon them. "We had a double ruff if you had returned a heart." "I was bound to clear the trumps." They were hot and angry about it. "How could you?" cried the doctor severely. "It was criminal." "You forget that I have only learned how I stand to-day." He put his two hands to his temples and pressed them convulsively. "You are a man of the world, Doctor Selby. You have seen or heard of such things before. Give me some advice. I'm in your hands. It is all so sudden and horrible, and I don't think I am strong enough to bear it." The doctor's heavy brows thickened into two straight lines and he bit his nails in perplexity. "The marriage must not take place." "Then what am I to do?" "At all costs it must not take place." "And I must give her up?" "There can be no question about that!" The young man took out a pocket-book and drew from it a small photograph, holding it out towards the doctor. The firm face softened as he looked at it. "It is very hard on you, no doubt. I can appreciate it more now that I have seen that. But there is no alternative at all. You must give up all thought of it." "But this is madness, doctor--madness, I tell you. No, I won't raise my voice! I forgot myself! But realise it, man! I am to be married on Tuesday--this coming Tuesday, you know. And all the world knows it. How can I put such a public affront upon her? It would be monstrous." "None the less it must be done. My dear sir, there is no way out of it." "You would have me simply write brutally and break the engagement at this last moment without a reason? I tell you I couldn't do it." "I had a patient once who found himself in a somewhat similar situation some years ago," said the doctor thoughtfully. "His device was a singular one. He deliberately committed a penal offence and so compelled the young lady's people to withdraw their consent to the marriage." The young baronet shook his head. "My personal honour is as yet unstained," said he. "I have little else left, but that at least I will preserve." "Well, well, it's a nice dilemma and the choice lies with you." "Have you no other suggestion?" "You don't happen to have property in Australia?" "None." "But you have capital?" "Yes." "Then you could buy some--to-morrow morning, for example. A thousand mining shares would do. Then you might write to say that urgent business affairs have compelled you to start at an hour's notice to inspect your property. That would give you six months at any rate." "Well, that would be possible--yes, certainly it would be possible. But think of her position--the house full of wedding presents--guests coming from a distance. It is awful. And you say there is no alternative." The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Well, then, I might write it now, and start to-morrow--eh? Perhaps you would let me use your desk. Thank you! I am so sorry to keep you from your guests so long. But I won't be a moment now." He wrote an abrupt note of a few lines. Then, with a sudden impulse, he tore it to shreds and flung it into the fireplace. "No, I can't sit down and tell her a lie, doctor," said he rising. "We must find some other way out of this. I will think it over, and let you know my decision. You must allow me to double your fee as I have taken such an unconscionable time. Now, good-bye, and thank you a thousand times for your sympathy and advice." "Why, dear me, you haven't even got your prescription yet. This is the mixture, and I should recommend one of these powders every morning and the chemist will put all directions upon the ointment box. You are placed in a cruel situation, but I trust that these may be but passing clouds. When may I hope to hear from you again?" "To-morrow morning." "Very good. How the rain is splashing in the street. You have your waterproof there. You will need it. Good-bye, then, until to-morrow." He opened the door. A gust of cold, damp air swept into the hall. And yet the doctor stood for a minute or more watching the lonely figure which passed slowly through the yellow splotches of the gas-lamps and into the broad bars of darkness between. It was but his own shadow which trailed up the wall as he passed the lights, and yet it looked to the doctor's eye as though some huge and sombre figure walked by a mannikin's side, and led him silently up the lonely street. Doctor Horace Selby heard again of his patient next morning and rather earlier than he had expected. A paragraph in the _Daily News_ caused him to push away his breakfast untasted, and turned him sick and faint while he read it. "A Deplorable Accident" it was headed, and it ran in this way:-- "A fatal accident of a peculiarly painful character is reported from King William Street. About eleven o'clock last night a young man was observed, while endeavouring to get out of the way of a hansom, to slip and fall under the wheels of a heavy two-horse dray. On being picked up, his injuries were found to be of a most shocking character, and he expired while being conveyed to the hospital. An examination of his pocket-book and card-case shows beyond any question that the deceased is none other than Sir Francis Norton of Deane Park, who has only within the last year come into the baronetcy. The accident is made the more deplorable as the deceased, who was only just of age, was on the eve of being married to a young lady belonging to one of the oldest families in the south. With his wealth and his talents the ball of fortune was at his feet, and his many friends will be deeply grieved to know that his promising career has been cut short in so sudden and tragic a fashion." XI THE CURSE OF EVE Robert Johnson was an essentially commonplace man, with no feature to distinguish him from a million others. He was pale of face, ordinary in looks, neutral in opinions, thirty years of age, and a married man. By trade he was a gentleman's outfitter in the New North Road, and the competition of business squeezed out of him the little character that was left. In his hope of conciliating customers he had become cringing and pliable, until working ever in the same routine from day to day he seemed to have sunk into a soulless machine rather than a man. No great question had ever stirred him. At the end of this smug century, self-contained in his own narrow circle, it seemed impossible that any of the mighty, primitive passions of mankind could ever reach him. Yet birth, and lust, and illness, and death are changeless things, and when one of these harsh facts springs out upon a man at some sudden turn of the path of life, it dashes off for the moment his mask of civilisation and gives a glimpse of the stranger and stronger face below. Johnson's wife was a quiet little woman, with brown hair and gentle ways. His affection for her was the one positive trait in his character. Together they would lay out the shop window every Monday morning, the spotless shirts in their green cardboard boxes below, the neckties above hung in rows over the brass rails, the cheap studs glistening from the white cards at either side, while in the background were the rows of cloth caps and the bank of boxes in which the more valuable hats were screened from the sunlight. She kept the books and sent out the bills. No one but she knew the joys and sorrows which crept into his small life. She had shared his exultation when the gentleman who was going to India had bought ten dozen shirts and an incredible number of collars, and she had been stricken as he when, after the goods had gone, the bill was returned from the hotel address with the intimation that no such person had lodged there. For five years they had worked, building up the business, thrown together all the more closely because their marriage had been a childless one. Now, however, there were signs that a change was at hand, and that speedily. She was unable to come downstairs, and her mother, Mrs. Peyton, came over from Camberwell to nurse her and to welcome her grandchild. Little qualms of anxiety came over Johnson as his wife's time approached. However, after all, it was a natural process. Other men's wives went through it unharmed, and why should not his? He was himself one of a family of fourteen, and yet his mother was alive and hearty. It was quite the exception for anything to go wrong. And yet in spite of his reasonings the remembrance of his wife's condition was always like a sombre background to all his other thoughts. Doctor Miles of Bridport Place, the best man in the neighbourhood, was retained five months in advance, and, as time stole on, many little packets of absurdly small white garments with frill work and ribbons began to arrive among the big consignments of male necessities. And then one evening, as Johnson was ticketing the scarves in the shop, he heard a bustle upstairs, and Mrs. Peyton came running down to say that Lucy was bad and that she thought the doctor ought to be there without delay. It was not Robert Johnson's nature to hurry. He was prim and staid and liked to do things in an orderly fashion. It was a quarter of a mile from the corner of the New North Road where his shop stood to the doctor's house in Bridport Place. There were no cabs in sight, so he set off upon foot, leaving the lad to mind the shop. At Bridport Place he was told that the doctor had just gone to Harman Street to attend a man in a fit. Johnson started off for Harman Street, losing a little of his primness as he became more anxious. Two full cabs but no empty ones passed him on the way. At Harman Street he learned that the doctor had gone on to a case of measles, fortunately he had left the address--69 Dunstan Road, at the other side of the Regent's Canal. Johnson's primness had vanished now as he thought of the women waiting at home, and he began to run as hard as he could down the Kingsland Road. Some way along he sprang into a cab which stood by the curb and drove to Dunstan Road. The doctor had just left, and Robert Johnson felt inclined to sit down upon the steps in despair. Fortunately he had not sent the cab away, and he was soon back at Bridport Place. Doctor Miles had not returned yet, but they were expecting him every instant. Johnson waited, drumming his fingers on his knees, in a high, dim-lit room, the air of which was charged with a faint, sickly smell of ether. The furniture was massive, and the books in the shelves were sombre, and a squat black clock ticked mournfully on the mantelpiece. It told him that it was half-past seven, and that he had been gone an hour and a quarter. Whatever would the women think of him! Every time that a distant door slammed he sprang from his chair in a quiver of eagerness. His ears strained to catch the deep notes of the doctor's voice. And then, suddenly, with a gush of joy he heard a quick step outside, and the sharp click of the key in the lock. In an instant he was out in the hall, before the doctor's foot was over the threshold. "If you please, doctor, I've come for you," he cried; "the wife was taken bad at six o'clock." He hardly knew what he expected the doctor to do. Something very energetic, certainly--to seize some drugs, perhaps, and rush excitedly with him through the gaslit streets. Instead of that Doctor Miles threw his umbrella into the rack, jerked off his hat with a somewhat peevish gesture, and pushed Johnson back into the room. "Let's see! You _did_ engage me, didn't you?" he asked in no very cordial voice. "Oh yes, doctor, last November. Johnson, the outfitter, you know, in the New North Road." "Yes, yes. It's a bit overdue," said the doctor, glancing at a list of names in a note-book with a very shiny cover. "Well, how is she?" "I don't----" "Ah, of course, it's your first. You'll know more about it next time." "Mrs. Peyton said it was time you were there, sir." "My dear sir, there can be no very pressing hurry in a first case. We shall have an all-night affair, I fancy. You can't get an engine to go without coals, Mr. Johnson, and I have had nothing but a light lunch." "We could have something cooked for you--something hot and a cup of tea." "Thank you, but I fancy my dinner is actually on the table. I can do no good in the earlier stages. Go home and say that I am coming, and I will be round immediately afterwards." A sort of horror filled Robert Johnson as he gazed at this man who could think about his dinner at such a moment. He had not imagination enough to realise that the experience which seemed so appallingly important to him, was the merest everyday matter of business to the medical man who could not have lived for a year had he not, amid the rush of work, remembered what was due to his own health. To Johnson he seemed little better than a monster. His thoughts were bitter as he sped back to his shop. "You've taken your time," said his mother-in-law reproachfully, looking down the stairs as he entered. "I couldn't help it!" he gasped. "Is it over?" "Over! She's got to be worse, poor dear, before she can be better. Where's Doctor Miles?" "He's coming after he's had dinner." The old woman was about to make some reply, when, from the half-opened door behind, a high, whinnying voice cried out for her. She ran back and closed the door, while Johnson, sick at heart, turned into the shop. There he sent the lad home and busied himself frantically in putting up shutters and turning out boxes. When all was closed and finished he seated himself in the parlour behind the shop. But he could not sit still. He rose incessantly to walk a few paces and then fall back into a chair once more. Suddenly the clatter of china fell upon his ear, and he saw the maid pass the door with a cup on a tray and a smoking teapot. "Who is that for, Jane?" he asked. "For the mistress, Mr. Johnson. She says she would fancy it." There was immeasurable consolation to him in that homely cup of tea. It wasn't so very bad after all if his wife could think of such things. So lighthearted was he that he asked for a cup also. He had just finished it when the doctor arrived, with a small black-leather bag in his hand. "Well, how is she?" he asked genially. "Oh, she's very much better," said Johnson, with enthusiasm. "Dear me, that's bad!" said the doctor. "Perhaps it will do if I look in on my morning round?" "No, no," cried Johnson, clutching at his thick frieze overcoat. "We are so glad that you have come. And, doctor, please come down soon and let me know what you think about it." The doctor passed upstairs, his firm, heavy steps resounding through the house. Johnson could hear his boots creaking as he walked about the floor above him, and the sound was a consolation to him. It was crisp and decided, the tread of a man who had plenty of self-confidence. Presently, still straining his ears to catch what was going on, he heard the scraping of a chair as it was drawn along the floor, and a moment later he heard the door fly open, and some one came rushing downstairs. Johnson sprang up with his hair bristling, thinking that some dreadful thing had occurred, but it was only his mother-in-law, incoherent with excitement and searching for scissors and some tape. She vanished again and Jane passed up the stairs with a pile of newly-aired linen. Then, after an interval of silence, Johnson heard the heavy, creaking tread and the doctor came down into the parlour. "That's better," said he, pausing with his hand upon the door. "You look pale, Mr. Johnson." "Oh no, sir, not at all," he answered deprecatingly, mopping his brow with his handkerchief. "There is no immediate cause for alarm," said Doctor Miles. "The case is not all that we could wish it. Still we will hope for the best." "Is there danger, sir?" gasped Johnson. "Well, there is always danger, of course. It is not altogether a favourable case, but still it might be much worse. I have given her a draught. I saw as I passed that they have been doing a little building opposite to you. It's an improving quarter. The rents go higher and higher. You have a lease of your own little place, eh?" "Yes, sir, yes!" cried Johnson, whose ears were straining for every sound from above, and who felt none the less that it was very soothing that the doctor should be able to chat so easily at such a time. "That's to say no, sir, I am a yearly tenant." "Ah, I should get a lease if I were you. There's Marshall, the watchmaker, down the street, I attended his wife twice and saw him through the typhoid when they took up the drains in Prince Street. I assure you his landlord sprung his rent nearly forty a year and he had to pay or clear out." "Did his wife get through it, doctor?" "Oh yes, she did very well. Hullo! Hullo!" He slanted his ear to the ceiling with a questioning face, and then darted swiftly from the room. It was March and the evenings were chill, so Jane had lit the fire, but the wind drove the smoke downwards and the air was full of its acrid taint. Johnson felt chilled to the bone, though rather by his apprehensions than by the weather. He crouched over the fire with his thin white hands held out to the blaze. At ten o'clock Jane brought in the joint of cold meat and laid his place for supper, but he could not bring himself to touch it. He drank a glass of the beer, however, and felt the better for it. The tension of his nerves seemed to have reacted upon his hearing, and he was able to follow the most trivial things in the room above. Once, when the beer was still heartening him, he nerved himself to creep on tiptoe up the stair and to listen to what was going on. The bedroom door was half an inch open, and through the slit he could catch a glimpse of the clean-shaven face of the doctor, looking wearier and more anxious than before. Then he rushed downstairs like a lunatic, and running to the door he tried to distract his thoughts by watching what was going on in the street. The shops were all shut, and some rollicking boon companions came shouting along from the public-house. He stayed at the door until the stragglers had thinned down, and then came back to his seat by the fire. In his dim brain he was asking himself questions which had never intruded themselves before. Where was the justice of it? What had his sweet, innocent little wife done that she should be used so? Why was Nature so cruel? He was frightened at his own thoughts, and yet wondered that they had never occurred to him before. As the early morning drew in, Johnson, sick at heart and shivering in every limb, sat with his great-coat huddled round him, staring at the grey ashes and waiting hopelessly for some relief. His face was white and clammy, and his nerves had been numbed into a half-conscious state by the long monotony of misery. But suddenly all his feelings leapt into keen life again as he heard the bedroom door open and the doctor's steps upon the stair. Robert Johnson was precise and unemotional in everyday life, but he almost shrieked now as he rushed forward to know if it were over. One glance at the stern, drawn face which met him showed that it was no pleasant news which had sent the doctor downstairs. His appearance had altered as much as Johnson's during the last few hours. His hair was on end, his face flushed, his forehead dotted with beads of perspiration. There was a peculiar fierceness in his eye, and about the lines of his mouth, a fighting look as befitted a man who for hours on end had been striving with the hungriest of foes for the most precious of prizes. But there was a sadness too, as though his grim opponent had been overmastering him. He sat down and leaned his head upon his hand like a man who is fagged out. "I thought it my duty to see you, Mr. Johnson, and to tell you that it is a very nasty case. Your wife's heart is not strong, and she has some symptoms which I do not like. What I wanted to say is that if you would like to have a second opinion I shall be very glad to meet any one whom you might suggest." Johnson was so dazed by his want of sleep and the evil news that he could hardly grasp the doctor's meaning. The other, seeing him hesitate, thought that he was considering the expense. "Smith or Hawley would come for two guineas," said he. "But I think Pritchard of the City Road is the best man." "Oh yes, bring the best man," cried Johnson. "Pritchard would want three guineas. He is a senior man, you see." "I'd give him all I have if he would pull her through. Shall I run for him?" "Yes. Go to my house first and ask for the green baize bag. The assistant will give it to you. Tell him I want the A.C.E. mixture. Her heart is too weak for chloroform. Then go for Pritchard and bring him back with you." It was heavenly for Johnson to have something to do and to feel that he was of some use to his wife. He ran swiftly to Bridport Place, his footfalls clattering through the silent streets, and the big dark policemen turning their yellow funnels of light on him as he passed. Two tugs at the night-bell brought down a sleepy, half-clad assistant, who handed him a stoppered glass bottle and a cloth bag which contained something which clinked when you moved it. Johnson thrust the bottle into his pocket, seized the green bag, and pressing his hat firmly down ran as hard as he could set foot to ground until he was in the City Road and saw the name of Pritchard engraved in white upon a red ground. He bounded in triumph up the three steps which led to the door, and as he did so there was a crash behind him. His precious bottle was in fragments upon the pavement. For a moment he felt as if it were his wife's body that was lying there. But the run had freshened his wits and he saw that the mischief might be repaired. He pulled vigorously at the night-bell. "Well, what's the matter?" asked a gruff voice at his elbow. He started back and looked up at the windows, but there was no sign of life. He was approaching the bell again with the intention of pulling it, when a perfect roar burst from the wall. "I can't stand shivering here all night," cried the voice. "Say who you are and what you want or I shut the tube." Then for the first time Johnson saw that the end of a speaking tube hung out of the wall just above the bell. He shouted up it-- "I want you to come with me to meet Doctor Miles at a confinement at once." "How far?" shrieked the irascible voice. "The New North Road, Hoxton." "My consultation fee is three guineas, payable at the time." "All right," shouted Johnson. "You are to bring a bottle of A.C.E. mixture with you." "All right! Wait a bit!" Five minutes later an elderly, hard-faced man with grizzled hair flung open the door. As he emerged a voice from somewhere in the shadows cried-- "Mind you take your cravat, John," and he impatiently growled something over his shoulder in reply. The consultant was a man who had been hardened by a life of ceaseless labour, and who had been driven, as so many others have been, by the needs of his own increasing family to set the commercial before the philanthropic side of his profession. Yet beneath his rough crust he was a man with a kindly heart. "We don't want to break a record," said he, pulling up and panting after attempting to keep up with Johnson for five minutes. "I would go quicker if I could, my dear sir, and I quite sympathise with your anxiety, but really I can't manage it." So Johnson, on fire with impatience, had to slow down until they reached the New North Road, when he ran ahead and had the door open for the doctor when he came. He heard the two meet outside the bedroom, and caught scraps of their conversation. "Sorry to knock you up--nasty case--decent people." Then it sank into a mumble and the door closed behind them. Johnson sat up in his chair now, listening keenly, for he knew that a crisis must be at hand. He heard the two doctors moving about, and was able to distinguish the step of Pritchard, which had a drag in it, from the clean, crisp sound of the other's footfall. There was silence for a few minutes and then a curious drunken, mumbling sing-song voice came quavering up, very unlike anything which he had heard hitherto. At the same time a sweetish, insidious scent, imperceptible perhaps to any nerves less strained than his, crept down the stairs and penetrated into the room. The voice dwindled into a mere drone and finally sank away into silence, and Johnson gave a long sigh of relief for he knew that the drug had done its work and that, come what might, there should be no more pain for the sufferer. But soon the silence became even more trying to him than the cries had been. He had no clue now as to what was going on, and his mind swarmed with horrible possibilities. He rose and went to the bottom of the stairs again. He heard the clink of metal against metal, and the subdued murmur of the doctors' voices. Then he heard Mrs. Peyton say something, in a tone as of fear or expostulation, and again the doctors murmured together. For twenty minutes he stood there leaning against the wall, listening to the occasional rumbles of talk without being able to catch a word of it. And then of a sudden there rose out of the silence the strangest little piping cry, and Mrs. Peyton screamed out in her delight and the man ran into the parlour and flung himself down upon the horse-hair sofa, drumming his heels on it in his ecstasy. But often the great cat Fate lets us go, only to clutch us again in a fiercer grip. As minute after minute passed and still no sound came from above save those thin, glutinous cries, Johnson cooled from his frenzy of joy, and lay breathless with his ears straining. They were moving slowly about. They were talking in subdued tones. Still minute after minute passing, and no word from the voice for which he listened. His nerves were dulled by his night of trouble, and he waited in limp wretchedness upon his sofa. There he still sat when the doctors came down to him--a bedraggled, miserable figure with his face grimy and his hair unkempt from his long vigil. He rose as they entered, bracing himself against the mantelpiece. "Is she dead?" he asked. "Doing well," answered the doctor. And at the words that little conventional spirit which had never known until that night the capacity for fierce agony which lay within it, learned for the second time that there were springs of joy also which it had never tapped before. His impulse was to fall upon his knees, but he was shy before the doctors. "Can I go up?" "In a few minutes." "I'm sure, doctor. I'm very--I'm very----" he grew inarticulate. "Here are your three guineas, Doctor Pritchard. I wish they were three hundred." "So do I," said the senior man, and they laughed as they shook hands. Johnson opened the shop door for them and heard their talk as they stood for an instant outside. "Looked nasty at one time." "Very glad to have your help." "Delighted, I'm sure. Won't you step round and have a cup of coffee?" "No, thanks. I'm expecting another case." The firm step and the dragging one passed away to the right and the left. Johnson turned from the door still with that turmoil of joy in his heart. He seemed to be making a new start in life. He felt that he was a stronger and a deeper man. Perhaps all this suffering had an object then. It might prove to be a blessing both to his wife and to him. The very thought was one which he would have been incapable of conceiving twelve hours before. He was full of new emotions. If there had been a harrowing, there had been a planting too. "Can I come up?" he cried, and then, without waiting for an answer, he took the steps three at a time. Mrs. Peyton was standing by a soapy bath with a bundle in her hands. From under the curve of a brown shawl there looked out at him the strangest little red face with crumpled features, moist, loose lips, and eyelids which quivered like a rabbit's nostrils. The weak neck had let the head topple over, and it rested upon the shoulder. "Kiss it, Robert!" cried the grandmother. "Kiss your son!" But he felt a resentment to the little, red, blinking creature. He could not forgive it yet for that long night of misery. He caught sight of a white face in the bed and he ran towards it with such love and pity as his speech could find no words for. "Thank God it is over! Lucy, dear, it was dreadful!" "But I'm so happy now. I never was so happy in my life." Her eyes were fixed upon the brown bundle. "You mustn't talk," said Mrs. Peyton. "But don't leave me," whispered his wife. So he sat in silence with his hand in hers. The lamp was burning dim and the first cold light of dawn was breaking through the window. The night had been long and dark but the day was the sweeter and the purer in consequence. London was waking up. The roar began to rise from the street. Lives had come and lives had gone, but the great machine was still working out its dim and tragic destiny. XII A MEDICAL DOCUMENT Medical men are, as a class, very much too busy to take stock of singular situations or dramatic events. Thus it happens that the ablest chronicler of their experiences in our literature was a lawyer. A life spent in watching over death-beds--or over birth-beds which are infinitely more trying--takes something from a man's sense of proportion, as constant strong waters might corrupt his palate. The overstimulated nerve ceases to respond. Ask the surgeon for his best experiences and he may reply that he has seen little that is remarkable, or break away into the technical. But catch him some night when the fire has spurted up and his pipe is reeking, with a few of his brother practitioners for company and an artful question or allusion to set him going. Then you will get some raw, green facts new plucked from the tree of life. It is after one of the quarterly dinners of the Midland Branch of the British Medical Association. Twenty coffee cups, a dozen liqueur glasses, and a solid bank of blue smoke which swirls slowly along the high, gilded ceiling gives a hint of a successful gathering. But the members have shredded off to their homes. The line of heavy, bulge-pocketed overcoats and of stethoscope-bearing top hats is gone from the hotel corridor. Round the fire in the sitting-room three medicos are still lingering, however, all smoking and arguing, while a fourth, who is a mere layman and young at that, sits back at the table. Under cover of an open journal he is writing furiously with a stylographic pen, asking a question in an innocent voice from time to time and so flickering up the conversation whenever it shows a tendency to wane. The three men are all of that staid middle age which begins early and lasts late in the profession. They are none of them famous, yet each is of good repute, and a fair type of his particular branch. The portly man with the authoritative manner and the white, vitriol splash upon his cheek is Charley Manson, chief of the Wormley Asylum, and author of the brilliant monograph--"Obscure Nervous Lesions in the Unmarried." He always wears his collar high like that, since the half-successful attempt of a student of Revelations to cut his throat with a splinter of glass. The second, with the ruddy face and the merry brown eyes, is a general practitioner, a man of vast experience, who, with his three assistants and his five horses, takes twenty-five hundred a year in half-crown visits and shilling consultations out of the poorest quarter of a great city. That cheery face of Theodore Foster is seen at the side of a hundred sick-beds a day, and if he has one-third more names on his visiting list than in his cash-book he always promises himself that he will get level some day when a millionaire with a chronic complaint--the ideal combination--shall seek his services. The third, sitting on the right with his dress-shoes shining on the top of the fender, is Hargrave, the rising surgeon. His face has none of the broad humanity of Theodore Foster's, the eye is stern and critical, the mouth straight and severe, but there is strength and decision in every line of it, and it is nerve rather than sympathy which the patient demands when he is bad enough to come to Hargrave's door. He calls himself a jawman, "a mere jawman," as he modestly puts it, but in point of fact he is too young and too poor to confine himself to a specialty, and there is nothing surgical which Hargrave has not the skill and the audacity to do. "Before, after, and during," murmurs the general practitioner in answer to some interpolation of the outsider's. "I assure you, Manson, one sees all sorts of evanescent forms of madness." "Ah, puerperal!" throws in the other, knocking the curved grey ash from his cigar. "But you had some case in your mind, Foster." "Well, there was one only last week which was new to me. I had been engaged by some people of the name of Silcoe. When the trouble came round I went myself, for they would not hear of an assistant. The husband, who was a policeman, was sitting at the head of the bed on the further side. 'This won't do,' said I. 'Oh yes, doctor, it must do,' said she. 'It's quite irregular, and he must go,' said I. 'It's that or nothing,' said she. 'I won't open my mouth or stir a finger the whole night,' said he. So it ended by my allowing him to remain, and there he sat for eight hours on end. She was very good over the matter, but every now and again _he_ would fetch a hollow groan, and I noticed that he held his right hand just under the sheet all the time, where I had no doubt that it was clasped by her left. When it was all happily over, I looked at him and his face was the colour of this cigar ash, and his head had dropped on to the edge of the pillow. Of course I thought he had fainted with emotion, and I was just telling myself what I thought of myself for having been such a fool as to let him stay there, when suddenly I saw that the sheet over his hand was all soaked with blood; I whisked it down, and there was the fellow's wrist half cut through. The woman had one bracelet of a policeman's handcuff over her left wrist and the other round his right one. When she had been in pain she had twisted with all her strength and the iron had fairly eaten into the bone of the man's arm. 'Aye, doctor,' said she, when she saw I had noticed it. 'He's got to take his share as well as me. Turn and turn,' said she." "Don't you find it a very wearing branch of the profession?" asks Foster after a pause. "My dear fellow, it was the fear of it that drove me into lunacy work." "Aye, and it has driven men into asylums who never found their way on to the medical staff. I was a very shy fellow myself as a student, and I know what it means." "No joke that in general practice," says the alienist. "Well, you hear men talk about it as though it were, but I tell you it's much nearer tragedy. Take some poor, raw, young fellow who has just put up his plate in a strange town. He has found it a trial all his life, perhaps, to talk to a woman about lawn tennis and church services. When a young man _is_ shy he is shyer than any girl. Then down comes an anxious mother and consults him upon the most intimate family matters. 'I shall never go to that doctor again,' says she afterwards. 'His manner is so stiff and unsympathetic.' Unsympathetic! Why, the poor lad was struck dumb and paralysed. I have known general practitioners who were so shy that they could not bring themselves to ask the way in the street. Fancy what sensitive men like that must endure before they get broken in to medical practice. And then they know that nothing is so catching as shyness, and that if they do not keep a face of stone, their patient will be covered with confusion. And so they keep their face of stone, and earn the reputation perhaps of having a heart to correspond. I suppose nothing would shake _your_ nerve, Manson." "Well, when a man lives year in year out among a thousand lunatics, with a fair sprinkling of homicidals among them, one's nerves either get set or shattered. Mine are all right so far." "I was frightened once," says the surgeon. "It was when I was doing dispensary work. One night I had a call from some very poor people, and gathered from the few words they said that their child was ill. When I entered the room I saw a small cradle in the corner. Raising the lamp I walked over and putting back the curtains I looked down at the baby. I tell you it was sheer Providence that I didn't drop that lamp and set the whole place alight. The head on the pillow turned, and I saw a face looking up at me which seemed to me to have more malignancy and wickedness than ever I had dreamed of in a nightmare. It was the flush of red over the cheek-bones, and the brooding eyes full of loathing of me, and of everything else, that impressed me. I'll never forget my start as, instead of the chubby face of an infant, my eyes fell upon this creature. I took the mother into the next room. 'What is it?' I asked. 'A girl of sixteen,' said she, and then throwing up her arms, 'Oh, pray God she may be taken!' The poor thing, though she spent her life in this little cradle, had great, long, thin limbs which she curled up under her. I lost sight of the case and don't know what became of it, but I'll never forget the look in her eyes." "That's creepy," says Doctor Foster. "But I think one of my experiences would run it close. Shortly after I put up my plate I had a visit from a little hunch-backed woman, who wished me to come and attend to her sister in her trouble. When I reached the house, which was a very poor one, I found two other little hunched-backed women, exactly like the first, waiting for me in the sitting-room. Not one of them said a word, but my companion took the lamp and walked upstairs with her two sisters behind her, and me bringing up the rear. I can see those three queer shadows cast by the lamp upon the wall as clearly as I can see that tobacco pouch. In the room above was the fourth sister, a remarkably beautiful girl in evident need of my assistance. There was no wedding ring upon her finger. The three deformed sisters seated themselves round the room, like so many graven images, and all night not one of them opened her mouth. I'm not romancing, Hargrave; this is absolute fact. In the early morning a fearful thunderstorm broke out, one of the most violent I have ever known. The little garret burned blue with the lightning, and the thunder roared and rattled as if it were on the very roof of the house. It wasn't much of a lamp I had, and it was a queer thing when a spurt of lightning came to see those three twisted figures sitting round the walls, or to have the voice of my patient drowned by the booming of the thunder. By Jove, I don't mind telling you that there was a time when I nearly bolted from the room. All came right in the end, but I never heard the true story of the unfortunate beauty and her three crippled sisters." "That's the worst of these medical stories," sighs the outsider. "They never seem to have an end." "When a man is up to his neck in practice, my boy, he has no time to gratify his private curiosity. Things shoot across him and he gets a glimpse of them, only to recall them, perhaps, at some quiet moment like this. But I've always felt, Manson, that your line had as much of the terrible in it as any other." "More," groans the alienist. "A disease of the body is bad enough, but this seems to be a disease of the soul. Is it not a shocking thing--a thing to drive a reasoning man into absolute Materialism--to think that you may have a fine, noble fellow with every divine instinct and that some little vascular change, the dropping, we will say, of a minute spicule of bone from the inner table of his skull on to the surface of his brain may have the effect of changing him to a filthy and pitiable creature with every low and debasing tendency? What a satire an asylum is upon the majesty of man, and no less upon the ethereal nature of the soul." "Faith and hope," murmurs the general practitioner. "I have no faith, not much hope, and all the charity I can afford," says the surgeon. "When theology squares itself with the facts of life I'll read it up." "You were talking about cases," says the outsider, jerking the ink down into his stylographic pen. "Well, take a common complaint which kills many thousands every year, like G.P. for instance." "What's G.P.?" "General practitioner," suggests the surgeon with a grin. "The British public will have to know what G.P. is," says the alienist gravely. "It's increasing by leaps and bounds, and it has the distinction of being absolutely incurable. General paralysis is its full title, and I tell you it promises to be a perfect scourge. Here's a fairly typical case now which I saw last Monday week. A young farmer, a splendid fellow, surprised his friends by taking a very rosy view of things at a time when the whole country-side was grumbling. He was going to give up wheat, give up arable land, too, if it didn't pay, plant two thousand acres of rhododendrons and get a monopoly of the supply for Covent Garden--there was no end to his schemes, all sane enough but just a bit inflated. I called at the farm, not to see him, but on an altogether different matter. Something about the man's way of talking struck me and I watched him narrowly. His lip had a trick of quivering, his words slurred themselves together, and so did his handwriting when he had occasion to draw up a small agreement. A closer inspection showed me that one of his pupils was ever so little larger than the other. As I left the house his wife came after me. 'Isn't it splendid to see Job looking so well, doctor?' said she; 'he's that full of energy he can hardly keep himself quiet.' I did not say anything, for I had not the heart, but I knew that the fellow was as much condemned to death as though he were lying in the cell at Newgate. It was a characteristic case of incipient G.P." "Good heavens!" cries the outsider. "My own lips tremble. I often slur my words. I believe I've got it myself." Three little chuckles come from the front of the fire. "There's the danger of a little medical knowledge to the layman." "A great authority has said that every first year's student is suffering in silent agony from four diseases," remarks the surgeon. "One is heart disease, of course; another is cancer of the parotid. I forget the two other." "Where does the parotid come in?" "Oh, it's the last wisdom tooth coming through!" "And what would be the end of that young farmer?" asks the outsider. "Paresis of all the muscles, ending in fits, coma and death. It may be a few months, it may be a year or two. He was a very strong young man and would take some killing." "By the way," says the alienist, "did I ever tell you about the first certificate I ever signed? I stood as near ruin then as a man could go." "What was it, then?" "I was in practice at the time. One morning a Mrs. Cooper called upon me and informed me that her husband had shown signs of delusions lately. They took the form of imagining that he had been in the army and had distinguished himself very much. As a matter of fact he was a lawyer and had never been out of England. Mrs. Cooper was of opinion that if I were to call it might alarm him, so it was agreed between us that she should send him up in the evening on some pretext to my consulting-room, which would give me the opportunity of having a chat with him and, if I were convinced of his insanity, of signing his certificate. Another doctor had already signed, so that it only needed my concurrence to have him placed under treatment. Well, Mr. Cooper arrived in the evening about half an hour before I had expected him, and consulted me as to some malarious symptoms from which he said that he suffered. According to his account he had just returned from the Abyssinian Campaign, and had been one of the first of the British forces to enter Magdala. No delusion could possibly be more marked, for he would talk of little else, so I filled in the papers without the slightest hesitation. When his wife arrived, after he had left, I put some questions to her to complete the forms. 'What is his age?' I asked. 'Fifty,' said she. 'Fifty!' I cried. 'Why, the man I examined could not have been more than thirty!' And so it came out that the real Mr. Cooper had never called upon me at all, but that by one of those coincidences which takes a man's breath away another Cooper, who really was a very distinguished young officer of artillery, had come in to consult me. My pen was wet to sign the paper when I discovered it," says Dr. Manson, mopping his forehead. "We were talking about nerve just now," observes the surgeon. "Just, after my qualifying I served in the Navy for a time, as I think you know. I was on the flag-ship on the West African Station, and I remember a singular example of nerve which came to my notice at that time. One of our small gunboats had gone up the Calabar river, and when there the surgeon died of coast fever. On the same day a man's leg was broken by a spar falling upon it, and it became quite obvious that it must be taken off above the knee if his life was to be saved. The young lieutenant who was in charge of the craft searched among the dead doctor's effects and laid his hands upon some chloroform, a hip-joint knife, and a volume of Grey's _Anatomy_. He had the man laid by the steward upon the cabin table, and with a picture of the cross section of the thigh in front of him he began to take off the limb. Every now and then, referring to the diagram, he would say: 'Stand by with the lashings, steward. There's blood on the chart about here.' Then he would jab with his knife until he cut the artery, and he and his assistant would tie it up before they went any further. In this way they gradually whittled the leg off, and upon my word they made a very excellent job of it. The man is hopping about the Portsmouth Yard at this day. "It's no joke when the doctor of one of these isolated gunboats himself falls ill," continues the surgeon after a pause. "You might think it easy for him to prescribe for himself, but this fever knocks you down like a club, and you haven't strength left to brush a mosquito off your face. I had a touch of it at Lagos, and I know what I am telling you. But there was a chum of mine who really had a curious experience. The whole crew gave him up, and, as they had never had a funeral aboard the ship, they began rehearsing the forms so as to be ready. They thought that he was unconscious, but he swears he could hear every word that passed. 'Corpse comin' up the 'atchway!' cried the cockney sergeant of Marines. 'Present harms!' He was so amused, and so indignant too, that he just made up his mind that he wouldn't be carried through that hatchway, and he wasn't, either." "There's no need for fiction in medicine," remarks Foster, "for the facts will always beat anything you can fancy. But it has seemed to me sometimes that a curious paper might be read at some of these meetings about the uses of medicine in popular fiction." "How?" "Well, of what the folk die of, and what diseases are made most use of in novels. Some are worn to pieces, and others, which are equally common in real life, are never mentioned. Typhoid is fairly frequent, but scarlet fever is unknown. Heart disease is common, but then heart disease, as we know it, is usually the sequel of some foregoing disease, of which we never hear anything in the romance. Then there is the mysterious malady called brain fever, which always attacks the heroine after a crisis, but which is unknown under that name to the text books. People when they are over-excited in novels fall down in a fit. In a fairly large experience I have never known any one to do so in real life. The small complaints simply don't exist. Nobody ever gets shingles or quinsy, or mumps in a novel. All the diseases, too, belongs to the upper part of the body. The novelist never strikes below the belt." "I'll tell you what, Foster," says the alienist, "there is a side of life which is too medical for the general public and too romantic for the professional journals, but which contains some of the richest human materials that a man could study. It's not a pleasant side, I am afraid, but if it is good enough for Providence to create, it is good enough for us to try and understand. It would deal with strange outbursts of savagery and vice in the lives of the best men, curious momentary weaknesses in the record of the sweetest women, known but to one or two, and inconceivable to the world around. It would deal, too, with the singular phenomena of waxing and of waning manhood, and would throw a light upon those actions which have cut short many an honoured career and sent a man to a prison when he should have been hurried to a consulting-room. Of all evils that may come upon the sons of men, God shield us principally from that one!" "I had a case some little time ago which was out of the ordinary," says the surgeon. "There was a famous beauty in London Society--I mention no names--who used to be remarkable a few seasons ago for the very low dresses which she would wear. She had the whitest of skins, and most beautiful of shoulders, so it was no wonder. Then gradually the frilling at her neck lapped upwards and upwards, until last year she astonished every one by wearing quite a high collar at a time when it was completely out of fashion. Well, one day this very woman was shown into my consulting-room. When the footman was gone she suddenly tore off the upper part of her dress. 'For God's sake do something for me!' she cried. Then I saw what the trouble was. A rodent ulcer was eating its way upwards, coiling on in its serpiginous fashion until the end of it was flush with her collar. The red streak of its trail was lost below the line of her bust. Year by year it had ascended and she had heightened her dress to hide it, until now it was about to invade her face. She had been too proud to confess her trouble, even to a medical man." "And did you stop it?" "Well, with zinc chloride I did what I could. But it may break out again. She was one of those beautiful white-and-pink creatures who are rotten with struma. You may patch but you can't mend." "Dear! dear! dear!" cries the general practitioner, with that kindly softening of the eyes which has endeared him to so many thousands. "I suppose we mustn't think ourselves wiser than Providence, but there are times when one feels that something is wrong in the scheme of things. I've seen some sad things in my life. Did I ever tell you that case where Nature divorced a most loving couple? He was a fine young fellow, an athlete and a gentleman, but he overdid athletics. You know how the force that controls us gives us a little tweak to remind us when we get off the beaten track. It may be a pinch on the great toe if we drink too much and work too little. Or it may be a tug on our nerves if we dissipate energy too much. With the athlete, of course, it's the heart or the lungs. He had bad phthisis and was sent to Davos. Well, as luck would have it, she developed rheumatic fever, which left her heart very much affected. Now, do you see the dreadful dilemma in which those poor people found themselves? When he came below 4,000 feet or so, his symptoms became terrible. She could come up about 2,500, and then her heart reached its limit. They had several interviews half-way down the valley, which left them nearly dead, and at last, the doctors had to absolutely forbid it. And so for four years they lived within three miles of each other and never met. Every morning he would go to a place which overlooked the chalet in which she lived and would wave a great white cloth and she answer from below. They could see each other quite plainly with their field glasses, and they might have been in different planets for all their chance of meeting." "And one at last died," says the outsider. "No, sir. I'm sorry not to be able to clinch the story, but the man recovered and is now a successful stockbroker in Drapers Gardens. The woman, too, is the mother of a considerable family. But what are you doing there?" "Only taking a note or two of your talk." The three medical men laugh as they walk towards their overcoats. "Why, we've done nothing but talk shop," says the general practitioner. "What possible interest can the public take in that?" XIII THE SURGEON TALKS "Men die of the diseases which they have studied most," remarked the surgeon, snipping off the end of a cigar with all his professional neatness and finish. "It's as if the morbid condition was an evil creature which, when it found itself closely hunted, flew at the throat of its pursuer. If you worry the microbes too much they may worry you. I've seen cases of it, and not necessarily in microbic diseases either. There was, of course, the well-known instance of Liston and the aneurism; and a dozen others that I could mention. You couldn't have a clearer case than that of poor old Walker of St. Christopher's. Not heard of it? Well, of course, it was a little before your time, but I wonder that it should have been forgotten. You youngsters are so busy in keeping up to the day that you lose a good deal that is interesting of yesterday. "Walker was one of the best men in Europe on nervous disease. You must have read his little book on sclerosis of the posterior columns. It's as interesting as a novel, and epoch-making in its way. He worked like a horse, did Walker--huge consulting practice--hours a day in the clinical wards--constant original investigations. And then he enjoyed himself also. '_De mortuis_,' of course, but still it's an open secret among all who knew him. If he died at forty-five, he crammed eighty years into it. The marvel was that he could have held on so long at the pace at which he was going. But he took it beautifully when it came. "I was his clinical assistant at the time. Walker was lecturing on locomotor ataxia to a wardful of youngsters. He was explaining that one of the early signs of the complaint was that the patient could not put his heels together with his eyes shut without staggering. As he spoke, he suited the action to the word. I don't suppose the boys noticed anything. I did, and so did he, though he finished his lecture without a sign. "When it was over he came into my room and lit a cigarette. "'Just run over my reflexes, Smith,' said he. "There was hardly a trace of them left, I tapped away at his knee-tendon and might as well have tried to get a jerk out of that sofa-cushion. He stood, with his eyes shut again, and he swayed like a bush in the wind. "'So,' said he, 'it was not intercostal neuralgia after all.' "Then I knew that he had had the lightning pains, and that the case was complete. There was nothing to say, so I sat looking at him while he puffed and puffed at the cigarette. Here he was, a man in the prime of life, one of the handsomest men in London, with money, fame, social success, everything at his feet, and now, without a moment's warning, he was told that inevitable death lay before him, a death accompanied by more refined and lingering tortures than if he were bound upon a Red Indian stake. He sat in the middle of the blue cigarette cloud with his eyes cast down, and the slightest little tightening of his lips. Then he rose with a motion of his arms, as one who throws off old thoughts and enters upon a new course. "'Better put this thing straight at once,' said he. 'I must make some fresh arrangements. May I use your paper and envelopes?' "He settled himself at my desk and he wrote half a dozen letters. It is not a breach of confidence to say that they were not addressed to his professional brothers. Walker was a single man, which means that he was not restricted to a single woman. When he had finished, he walked out of that little room of mine, leaving every hope and ambition of his life behind him. And he might have had another year of ignorance and peace if it had not been for the chance illustration in his lecture. "It took five years to kill him, and he stood it well. If he had ever been a little irregular he atoned for it in that long martyrdom. He kept an admirable record of his own symptoms, and worked out the eye changes more fully than has ever been done. When the ptosis got very bad he would hold his eyelid up with one hand while he wrote. Then, when he could not co-ordinate his muscles to write, he dictated to his nurse. So died, in the odour of science, James Walker, æt. 45. "Poor old Walker was very fond of experimental surgery, and he broke ground in several directions. Between ourselves, there may have been some more ground-breaking afterwards, but he did his best for his cases. You know M'Namara, don't you? He always wears his hair long. He lets it be understood that it comes from his artistic strain, but it is really to conceal the loss of one of his ears. Walker cut the other one off, but you must not tell Mac I said so. "It was like this. Walker had a fad about the portio dura--the motor to the face, you know--and he thought paralysis of it came from a disturbance of the blood supply. Something else which counterbalanced that disturbance might, he thought, set it right again. We had a very obstinate case of Bell's paralysis in the wards, and had tried it with every conceivable thing, blistering, tonics, nerve-stretching, galvanism, needles, but all without result. Walker got it into his head that removal of the ear would increase the blood supply to the part, and he very soon gained the consent of the patient to the operation. "Well, we did it at night. Walker, of course, felt that it was something of an experiment, and did not wish too much talk about it unless it proved successful. There were half a dozen of us there, M'Namara and I among the rest. The room was a small one, and in the centre was the narrow table, with a mackintosh over the pillow, and a blanket which extended almost to the floor on either side. Two candles, on a side-table near the pillow, supplied all the light. In came the patient, with one side of his face as smooth as a baby's, and the other all in a quiver with fright. He lay down, and the chloroform towel was placed over his face, while Walker threaded his needles in the candle light. The chloroformist stood at the head of the table, and M'Namara was stationed at the side to control the patient. The rest of us stood by to assist. "Well, the man was about half over when he fell into one of those convulsive flurries which come with the semi-unconscious stage. He kicked and plunged and struck out with both hands. Over with a crash went the little table which held the candles, and in an instant we were left in total darkness. You can think what a rush and a scurry there was, one to pick up the table, one to find the matches, and some to restrain the patient, who was still dashing himself about. He was held down by two dressers, the chloroform was pushed, and by the time the candles were relit, his incoherent, half-smothered shoutings had changed to a stertorous snore. His head was turned on the pillow and the towel was still kept over his face while the operation was carried through. Then the towel was withdrawn, and you can conceive our amazement when we looked upon the face of M'Namara. "How did it happen? Why, simply enough. As the candles went over, the chloroformist had stopped for an instant and had tried to catch them. The patient, just as the light went out, had rolled off and under the table. Poor M'Namara, clinging frantically to him, had been dragged across it, and the chloroformist, feeling him there, had naturally clapped the towel across his mouth and nose. The others had secured him, and the more he roared and kicked the more they drenched him with chloroform. Walker was very nice about it, and made the most handsome apologies. He offered to do a plastic on the spot, and make as good an ear as he could, but M'Namara had had enough of it. As to the patient, we found him sleeping placidly under the table, with the ends of the blanket screening him on both sides. Walker sent M'Namara round his ear next day in a jar of methylated spirit, but Mac's wife was very angry about it, and it led to a good deal of ill-feeling. Some people say that the more one has to do with human nature, and the closer one is brought in contact with it, the less one thinks of it. I don't believe that those who know most would uphold that view. My own experience is dead against it. I was brought up in the miserable-mortal-clay school of theology, and yet here I am, after thirty years of intimate acquaintance with humanity, filled with respect for it. The evil lies commonly upon the surface. The deeper strata are good. A hundred times I have seen folk condemned to death as suddenly as poor Walker was. Sometimes it was to blindness or to mutilations which are worse than death. Men and women, they almost all took it beautifully, and some with such lovely unselfishness, and with such complete absorption in the thought of how their fate would affect others, that the man about town, or the frivolously-dressed woman had seemed to change into an angel before my eyes. I have seen death-beds, too, of all ages and of all creeds and want of creeds. I never saw any of them shrink, save only one poor, imaginative young fellow, who had spent his blameless life in the strictest of sects. Of course, an exhausted frame is incapable of fear, as any one can vouch who is told, in the midst of his seasickness, that the ship is going to the bottom. That is why I rate courage in the face of mutilation to be higher than courage when a wasting illness is fining away into death. "Now, I'll take a case which I had in my own practice last Wednesday. A lady came in to consult me--the wife of a well-known sporting baronet. The husband had come with her, but remained, at her request, in the waiting-room. I need not go into details, but it proved to be a peculiarly malignant case of cancer. 'I knew it,' said she. 'How long have I to live?' 'I fear that it may exhaust your strength in a few months,' I answered. 'Poor old Jack!' said she. 'I'll tell him that it is not dangerous.' 'Why should you deceive him?' I asked. 'Well, he's very uneasy about it, and he is quaking now in the waiting-room. He has two old friends to dinner to-night, and I haven't the heart to spoil his evening. To-morrow will be time enough for him to learn the truth.' Out she walked, the brave little woman, and a moment later her husband, with his big, red face shining with joy came plunging into my room to shake me by the hand. No, I respected her wish and I did not undeceive him. I dare bet that evening was one of the brightest, and the next morning the darkest, of his life. "It's wonderful how bravely and cheerily a woman can face a crushing blow. It is different with men. A man can stand it without, but it knocks him dazed and silly all the same. But the woman does not lose her wits any more than she does her courage. Now, I had a case only a few weeks ago which would show you what I mean. A gentleman consulted me about his wife, a very beautiful woman. She had a small tubercular nodule upon her upper arm, according to him. He was sure that it was of no importance, but he wanted to know whether Devonshire or the Riviera would be the better for her. I examined her and found a frightful sarcoma of the bone, hardly showing upon the surface, but involving the shoulder-blade and clavicle as well as the humerus. A more malignant case I have never seen. I sent her out of the room and I told him the truth. What did he do? Why, he walked slowly round that room with his hands behind his back, looking with the greatest interest at the pictures. I can see him now, putting up his gold _pince-nez_ and staring at them with perfectly vacant eyes, which told me that he saw neither them nor the wall behind them. 'Amputation of the arm?' he asked at last. 'And of the collar-bone and shoulder-blade,' said I. 'Quite so. The collar-bone and shoulder-blade,' he repeated, still staring about him with those lifeless eyes. It settled him. I don't believe he'll ever be the same man again. But the woman took it as bravely and brightly as could be, and she has done very well since. The mischief was so great that the arm snapped as we drew it from the night-dress. No, I don't think that there will be any return, and I have every hope of her recovery. "The first patient is a thing which one remembers all one's life. Mine was commonplace, and the details are of no interest. I had a curious visitor, however, during the first few months after my plate went up. It was an elderly woman, richly dressed, with a wicker-work picnic basket in her hand. This she opened with the tears streaming down her face, and out there waddled the fattest, ugliest and mangiest little pug dog that I have ever seen. 'I wish you to put him painlessly out of the world, doctor,' she cried. 'Quick, quick, or my resolution may give way.' She flung herself down, with hysterical sobs, upon the sofa. The less experienced a doctor is, the higher are his notions of professional dignity, as I need not remind you, my young friend, so I was about to refuse the commission with indignation, when I bethought me that, quite apart from medicine, we were gentleman and lady, and that she had asked me to do something for her which was evidently of the greatest possible importance in her eyes. I led off the poor little doggie, therefore, and with the help of a saucerful of milk and a few drops of prussic acid his exit was as speedy and painless as could be desired. 'Is it over?' she cried as I entered. It was really tragic to see how all the love which should have gone to husband and children had, in default of them, been centred upon this uncouth little animal. She left, quite broken down, in her carriage, and it was only after her departure that I saw an envelope sealed with a large red seal, and lying upon the blotting pad of my desk. Outside, in pencil, was written:--'I have no doubt that you would willingly have done this without a fee, but I insist upon your acceptance of the enclosed.' I opened it with some vague notions of an eccentric millionaire and a fifty pound note, but all I found was a postal order for four and sixpence. The whole incident struck me as so whimsical that I laughed until I was tired. You'll find there's so much tragedy in a doctor's life, my boy, that he would not be able to stand it if it were not for the strain of comedy which comes every now and then to leaven it. "And a doctor has very much to be thankful for also. Don't you ever forget it. It is such a pleasure to do a little good that a man should pay for the privilege instead of being paid for it. Still, of course, he has his home to keep up and his wife and children to support. But his patients are his friends--or they should be so. He goes from house to house, and his step and his voice are loved and welcomed in each. What could a man ask for more than that? And besides, he is forced to be a good man. It is impossible for him to be anything else. How can a man spend his whole life in seeing suffering bravely borne and yet remain a hard or a vicious man? It is a noble, generous, kindly profession, and you youngsters have got to see that it remains so." XIV THE DOCTORS OF HOYLAND Doctor James Ripley was always looked upon as an exceedingly lucky dog by all of the profession who knew him. His father had preceded him in a practice in the village of Hoyland, in the north of Hampshire, and all was ready for him on the very first day that the law allowed him to put his name at the foot of a prescription. In a few years the old gentleman retired, and settled on the South Coast, leaving his son in undisputed possession of the whole country-side. Save for Doctor Horton, near Basingstoke, the young surgeon had a clear run of six miles in every direction, and took his fifteen hundred pounds a year, though, as is usual in country practices, the stable swallowed up most of what the consulting-room earned. Doctor James Ripley was two-and-thirty years of age, reserved, learned, unmarried, with set, rather stern features, and a thinning of the dark hair upon the top of his head, which was worth quite a hundred a year to him. He was particularly happy in his management of ladies. He had caught the tone of bland sternness and decisive suavity which dominates without offending. Ladies, however, were not equally happy in their management of him. Professionally, he was always at their service. Socially, he was a drop of quicksilver. In vain the country mammas spread out their simple lures in front of him. Dances and picnics were not to his taste, and he preferred during his scanty leisure to shut himself up in his study, and to bury himself in Virchow's _Archives_ and the professional journals. Study was a passion with him, and he would have none of the rust which often gathers round a country practitioner. It was his ambition to keep his knowledge as fresh and bright as at the moment when he had stepped out of the examination hall. He prided himself on being able at a moment's notice to rattle off the seven ramifications of some obscure artery, or to give the exact percentage of any physiological compound. After a long day's work he would sit up half the night performing iridectomies and extractions upon the sheep's eyes sent in by the village butcher, to the horror of his housekeeper, who had to remove the _débris_ next morning. His love for his work was the one fanaticism which found a place in his dry, precise nature. It was the more to his credit that he should keep up to date in his knowledge, since he had no competition to force him to exertion. In the seven years during which he had practiced in Hoyland three rivals had pitted themselves against him, two in the village itself and one in the neighbouring hamlet of Lower Hoyland. Of these one had sickened and wasted, being, as it was said, himself the only patient whom he had treated during his eighteen months of ruralising. A second had bought a fourth share of a Basingstoke practice, and had departed honourably, while a third had vanished one September night, leaving a gutted house and an unpaid drug bill behind him. Since then the district had become a monopoly, and no one had dared to measure himself against the established fame of the Hoyland doctor. It was, then, with a feeling of some surprise and considerable curiosity that on driving through Lower Hoyland one morning he perceived that the new house at the end of the village was occupied, and that a virgin brass plate glistened upon the swinging gate which faced the high road. He pulled up his fifty guinea chestnut mare and took a good look at it. "Verrinder Smith, M.D.," was printed across it in very neat, small lettering. The last man had had letters half a foot long, with a lamp like a fire-station. Doctor James Ripley noted the difference, and deduced from it that the new-comer might possibly prove a more formidable opponent. He was convinced of it that evening when he came to consult the current medical directory. By it he learned that Doctor Verrinder Smith was the holder of superb degrees, that he had studied with distinction at Edinburgh, Paris, Berlin, and Vienna, and finally that he had been awarded a gold medal and the Lee Hopkins scholarship for original research, in recognition of an exhaustive inquiry into the functions of the anterior spinal nerve roots. Doctor Ripley passed his fingers through his thin hair in bewilderment as he read his rival's record. What on earth could so brilliant a man mean by putting up his plate in a little Hampshire hamlet. But Doctor Ripley furnished himself with an explanation to the riddle. No doubt Dr. Verrinder Smith had simply come down there in order to pursue some scientific research in peace and quiet. The plate was up as an address rather than as an invitation to patients. Of course, that must be the true explanation. In that case the presence of this brilliant neighbour would be a splendid thing for his own studies. He had often longed for some kindred mind, some steel on which he might strike his flint. Chance had brought it to him, and he rejoiced exceedingly. And this joy it was which led him to take a step which was quite at variance with his usual habits. It is the custom for a new-comer among medical men to call first upon the older, and the etiquette upon the subject is strict. Doctor Ripley was pedantically exact on such points, and yet he deliberately drove over next day and called upon Doctor Verrinder Smith. Such a waiving of ceremony was, he felt, a gracious act upon his part, and a fit prelude to the intimate relations which he hoped to establish with his neighbour. The house was neat and well appointed, and Doctor Ripley was shown by a smart maid into a dapper little consulting-room. As he passed in he noticed two or three parasols and a lady's sun-bonnet hanging in the hall. It was a pity that his colleague should be a married man. It would put them upon a different footing, and interfere with those long evenings of high scientific talk which he had pictured to himself. On the other hand, there was much in the consulting-room to please him. Elaborate instruments, seen more often in hospitals than in the houses of private practitioners, were scattered about. A sphygmograph stood upon the table and a gasometer-like engine, which was new to Doctor Ripley, in the corner. A bookcase full of ponderous volumes in French and German, paper-covered for the most part, and varying in tint from the shell to the yolk of a duck's egg, caught his wandering eyes, and he was deeply absorbed in their titles when the door opened suddenly behind him. Turning round, he found himself facing a little woman, whose plain, palish face was remarkable only for a pair of shrewd, humorous eyes of a blue which had two shades too much green in it. She held a _pince-nez_ in her left hand, and the doctor's card in her right. "How do you do, Doctor Ripley?" said she. "How do you do, madam?" returned the visitor. "Your husband is perhaps out?" "I am not married," said she simply. "Oh, I beg your pardon! I meant the doctor--Dr. Verrinder Smith." "I am Doctor Verrinder Smith." Doctor Ripley was so surprised that he dropped his hat and forgot to pick it up again. "What!" he gasped, "the Lee Hopkins prizeman! You!" He had never seen a woman doctor before, and his whole conservative soul rose up in revolt at the idea. He could not recall any Biblical injunction that the man should remain ever the doctor and the woman the nurse, and yet he felt as if a blasphemy had been committed. His face betrayed his feelings only too clearly. "I am sorry to disappoint you," said the lady drily. "You certainly have surprised me," he answered, picking up his hat. "You are not among our champions, then?" "I cannot say that the movement has my approval." "And why?" "I should much prefer not to discuss it." "But I am sure you will answer a lady's question." "Ladies are in danger of losing their privileges when they usurp the place of the other sex. They cannot claim both." "Why should a woman not earn her bread by her brains?" Doctor Ripley felt irritated by the quiet manner in which the lady cross-questioned him. "I should much prefer not to be led into a discussion, Miss Smith." "Doctor Smith," she interrupted. "Well, Doctor Smith! But if you insist upon an answer, I must say that I do not think medicine a suitable profession for women and that I have a personal objection to masculine ladies." It was an exceedingly rude speech, and he was ashamed of it, the instant after he had made it. The lady however, simply raised her eyebrows and smiled. "It seems to me that you are begging the question," said she. "Of course, if it makes women masculine that _would_ be a considerable deterioration." It was a neat little counter, and Doctor Ripley, like a pinked fencer, bowed his acknowledgment. "I must go," said he. "I am sorry that we cannot come to some more friendly conclusion since we are to be neighbours," she remarked. He bowed again, and took a step towards the door. "It was a singular coincidence," she continued, "that at the instant that you called I was reading your paper on 'Locomotor Ataxia,' in the _Lancet_." "Indeed," said he drily. "I thought it was a very able monograph." "You are very good." "But the views which you attribute to Professor Pitres, of Bordeaux, have been repudiated by him." "I have his pamphlet of 1890," said Doctor Ripley angrily. "Here is his pamphlet of 1891." She picked it from among a litter of periodicals. "If you have time to glance your eye down this passage----" Doctor Ripley took it from her and shot rapidly through the paragraph which she indicated. There was no denying that it completely knocked the bottom out of his own article. He threw it down, and with another frigid bow he made for the door. As he took the reins from the groom he glanced round and saw that the lady was standing at her window, and it seemed to him that she was laughing heartily. All day the memory of this interview haunted him. He felt that he had come very badly out of it. She had showed herself to be his superior on his own pet subject. She had been courteous while he had been rude, self-possessed when he had been angry. And then, above all, there was her presence, her monstrous intrusion to rankle in his mind. A woman doctor had been an abstract thing before, repugnant but distant. Now she was there in actual practice, with a brass plate up just like his own, competing for the same patients. Not that he feared competition, but he objected to this lowering of his ideal of womanhood. She could not be more than thirty, and had a bright, mobile face, too. He thought of her humorous eyes, and of her strong, well-turned chin. It revolted him the more to recall the details of her education. A man, of course, could come through such an ordeal with all his purity, but it was nothing short of shameless in a woman. But it was not long before he learned that even her competition was a thing to be feared. The novelty of her presence had brought a few curious invalids into her consulting-rooms, and, once there, they had been so impressed by the firmness of her manner and by the singular, new-fashioned instruments with which she tapped, and peered, and sounded, that it formed the core of their conversation for weeks afterwards. And soon there were tangible proofs of her powers upon the country-side. Farmer Eyton, whose callous ulcer had been quietly spreading over his shin for years back under a gentle régime of zinc ointment, was painted round with blistering fluid, and found, after three blasphemous nights, that his sore was stimulated into healing. Mrs. Crowder, who had always regarded the birthmark upon her second daughter Eliza as a sign of the indignation of the Creator at a third helping of raspberry tart which she had partaken of during a critical period, learned that, with the help of two galvanic needles, the mischief was not irreparable. In a month Doctor Verrinder Smith was known, and in two she was famous. Occasionally, Doctor Ripley met her as he drove upon his rounds. She had started a high dog-cart, taking the reins herself, with a little tiger behind. When they met he invariably raised his hat with punctilious politeness, but the grim severity of his face showed how formal was the courtesy. In fact, his dislike was rapidly deepening into absolute detestation. "The unsexed woman," was the description of her which he permitted himself to give to those of his patients who still remained staunch. But, indeed, they were a rapidly-decreasing body, and every day his pride was galled by the news of some fresh defection. The lady had somehow impressed the country-folk with almost superstitious belief in her power, and from far and near they flocked to her consulting-room. But what galled him most of all was, when she did something which he had pronounced to be impracticable. For all his knowledge he lacked nerve as an operator, and usually sent his worst cases up to London. The lady, however, had no weakness of the sort, and took everything that came in her way. It was agony to him to hear that she was about to straighten little Alec Turner's club-foot, and right at the fringe of the rumour came a note from his mother, the rector's wife, asking him if he would be so good as to act as chloroformist. It would be inhumanity to refuse, as there was no other who could take the place, but it was gall and wormwood to his sensitive nature. Yet, in spite of his vexation, he could not but admire the dexterity with which the thing was done. She handled the little wax-like foot so gently, and held the tiny tenotomy knife as an artist holds his pencil. One straight insertion, one snick of a tendon, and it was all over without a stain upon the white towel which lay beneath. He had never seen anything more masterly, and he had the honesty to say so, though her skill increased his dislike of her. The operation spread her fame still further at his expense, and self-preservation was added to his other grounds for detesting her. And this very detestation it was which brought matters to a curious climax. One winter's night, just as he was rising from his lonely dinner, a groom came riding down from Squire Faircastle's, the richest man in the district, to say that his daughter had scalded her hand, and that medical help was needed on the instant. The coachman had ridden for the lady doctor, for it mattered nothing to the Squire who came as long as it were speedily. Doctor Ripley rushed from his surgery with the determination that she should not effect an entrance into this stronghold of his if hard driving on his part could prevent it. He did not even wait to light his lamps, but sprang into his gig and flew off as fast as hoof could rattle. He lived rather nearer to the Squire's than she did, and was convinced that he could get there well before her. And so he would but for that whimsical element of chance, which will for ever muddle up the affairs of this world and dumbfound the prophets. Whether it came from the want of his lights, or from his mind being full of the thoughts of his rival, he allowed too little by half a foot in taking the sharp turn upon the Basingstoke road. The empty trap and the frightened horse clattered away into the darkness, while the Squire's groom crawled out of the ditch into which he had been shot. He struck a match, looked down at his groaning companion, and then, after the fashion of rough, strong men when they see what they have not seen before, he was very sick. The doctor raised himself a little on his elbow in the glint of the match. He caught a glimpse of something white and sharp bristling through his trouser-leg half-way down the shin. "Compound!" he groaned. "A three months' job," and fainted. When he came to himself the groom was gone, for he had scudded off to the Squire's house for help, but a small page was holding a gig-lamp in front of his injured leg, and a woman, with an open case of polished instruments gleaming in the yellow light, was deftly slitting up his trouser with a crooked pair of scissors. "It's all right, doctor," said she soothingly. "I am so sorry about it. You can have Doctor Horton to-morrow, but I am sure you will allow me to help you to-night. I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw you by the roadside." "The groom has gone for help," groaned the sufferer. "When it comes we can move you into the gig. A little more light, John! So! Ah, dear, dear, we shall have laceration unless we reduce this before we move you. Allow me to give you a whiff of chloroform, and I have no doubt that I can secure it sufficiently to----" Doctor Ripley never heard the end of that sentence. He tried to raise a hand and to murmur something in protest, but a sweet smell was in his nostrils, and a sense of rich peace and lethargy stole over his jangled nerves. Down he sank, through clear, cool water, ever down and down into the green shadows beneath, gently, without effort, while the pleasant chiming of a great belfry rose and fell in his ears. Then he rose again, up and up, and ever up, with a terrible tightness about his temples, until at last he shot out of those green shadows and was in the light once more. Two bright, shining, golden spots gleamed before his dazed eyes. He blinked and blinked before he could give a name to them. They were only the two brass balls at the end posts of his bed, and he was lying in his own little room, with a head like a cannon ball, and a leg like an iron bar. Turning his eyes, he saw the calm face of Doctor Verrinder Smith looking down at him. "Ah, at last!" said she. "I kept you under all the way home, for I knew how painful the jolting would be. It is in good position now with a strong side splint. I have ordered a morphia draught for you. Shall I tell your groom to ride for Doctor Horton in the morning?" "I should prefer that you should continue the case," said Doctor Ripley feebly, and then, with a half-hysterical laugh--"You have all the rest of the parish as patients, you know, so you may as well make the thing complete by having me also." It was not a very gracious speech, but it was a look of pity and not of anger which shone in her eyes as she turned away from his bedside. Doctor Ripley had a brother, William, who was assistant surgeon at a London hospital, and who was down in Hampshire within a few hours of his hearing of the accident. He raised his brows when he heard the details. "What! You are pestered with one of those!" he cried. "I don't know what I should have done without her." "I've no doubt she's an excellent nurse." "She knows her work as well as you or I." "Speak for yourself, James," said the London man with a sniff. "But apart from that, you know that the principle of the thing is all wrong." "You think there is nothing to be said on the other side?" "Good heavens! do you?" "Well, I don't know. It struck me during the night that we may have been a little narrow in our views." "Nonsense, James. It's all very fine for women to win prizes in the lecture-room, but you know as well as I do that they are no use in an emergency. Now I warrant that this woman was all nerves when she was setting your leg. That reminds me that I had better just take a look at it and see that it is all right." "I would rather that you did not undo it," said the patient. "I have her assurance that it is all right." Brother William was deeply shocked. "Of course, if a woman's assurance is of more value than the opinion of the assistant surgeon of a London hospital, there is nothing more to be said," he remarked. "I should prefer that you did not touch it," said the patient firmly, and Doctor William went back to London that evening in a huff. The lady, who had heard of his coming, was much surprised on learning of his departure. "We had a difference upon a point of professional etiquette," said Doctor James, and it was all the explanation he would vouchsafe. For two long months Doctor Ripley was brought in contact with his rival every day, and he learned many things which he had not known before. She was a charming companion, as well as a most assiduous doctor. Her short presence during the long, weary day was like a flower in a sand waste. What interested him was precisely what interested her, and she could meet him at every point upon equal terms. And yet under all her learning and her firmness ran a sweet, womanly nature, peeping out in her talk, shining in her greenish eyes, showing itself in a thousand subtle ways which the dullest of men could read. And he, though a bit of a prig and a pedant, was by no means dull, and had honesty enough to confess when he was in the wrong. "I don't know how to apologise to you," he said in his shame-faced fashion one day, when he had progressed so far as to be able to sit in an arm-chair with his leg upon another one; "I feel that I have been quite in the wrong." "Why, then?" "Over this woman question. I used to think that a woman must inevitably lose something of her charm if she took up such studies." "Oh, you don't think they are necessarily unsexed, then?" she cried, with a mischievous smile. "Please don't recall my idiotic expression." "I feel so pleased that I should have helped in changing your views. I think that it is the most sincere compliment that I have ever had paid me." "At any rate, it is the truth," said he, and was happy all night at the remembrance of the flush of pleasure which made her pale face look quite comely for the instant. For, indeed, he was already far past the stage when he would acknowledge her as the equal of any other woman. Already he could not disguise from himself that she had become the one woman. Her dainty skill, her gentle touch, her sweet presence, the community of their tastes, had all united to hopelessly upset his previous opinions. It was a dark day for him now when his convalescence allowed her to miss a visit, and darker still that other one which he saw approaching when all occasion for her visits would be at an end. It came round at last, however, and he felt that his whole life's fortune would hang upon the issue of that final interview. He was a direct man by nature, so he laid his hand upon hers as it felt for his pulse, and he asked her if she would be his wife. "What, and unite the practices?" said she. He started in pain and anger. "Surely you do not attribute any such base motive to me!" he cried. "I love you as unselfishly as ever a woman was loved." "No, I was wrong. It was a foolish speech," said she, moving her chair a little back, and tapping her stethoscope upon her knee. "Forget that I ever said it. I am so sorry to cause you any disappointment, and I appreciate most highly the honour which you do me, but what you ask is quite impossible." With another woman he might have urged the point, but his instincts told him that it was quite useless with this one. Her tone of voice was conclusive. He said nothing, but leaned back in his chair a stricken man. "I am so sorry," she said again. "If I had known what was passing in your mind I should have told you earlier that I intend to devote my life entirely to science. There are many women with a capacity for marriage, but few with a taste for biology. I will remain true to my own line, then. I came down here while waiting for an opening in the Paris Physiological Laboratory. I have just heard that there is a vacancy for me there, and so you will be troubled no more by my intrusion upon your practice. I have done you an injustice just as you did me one. I thought you narrow and pedantic, with no good quality. I have learned during your illness to appreciate you better, and the recollection of our friendship will always be a very pleasant one to me." And so it came about that in a very few weeks there was only one doctor in Hoyland. But folks noticed that the one had aged many years in a few months, that a weary sadness lurked always in the depths of his blue eyes, and that he was less concerned than ever with the eligible young ladies whom chance, or their careful country mammas, placed in his way. XV CRABBE'S PRACTICE I wonder how many men remember Tom Waterhouse Crabbe, student of medicine in this city. He was a man whom it was not easy to forget if you had once come across him. Geniuses are more commonly read about than seen, but one could not speak five minutes with Crabbe without recognising that he had inherited some touch of that subtle, indefinable essence. There was a bold originality in his thought, and a convincing earnestness in his mode of expressing it, which pointed to something higher than mere cleverness. He studied spasmodically and irregularly, yet he was one of the first men--certainly the most independent thinker--of his year. Poor Crabbe--there was something delightfully original even in his mistakes. I can remember how he laboriously explained to his examiner that the Spanish fly _grew_ in Spain. And how he gave five drops of Sabin oil credit for producing that state which it is usually believed to rectify. Crabbe was not at all the type of man whom we usually associate with the word "genius." He was not pale nor thin, neither was his hair of abnormal growth. On the contrary he was a powerfully built, square-shouldered fellow, full of vitality, with a voice like a bull and a laugh that could be heard across the meadows. A muscular Christian too, and one of the best Rugby forwards in Edinburgh. I remember my first meeting with Crabbe. It gave me a respect both for his cool reasoning powers and for his courage. It was at one of the Bulgarian Atrocity meetings held in Edinburgh in '78. The hall was densely packed and the ventilation defective, so that I was not sorry to find that owing to my lateness I was unable to get any place, and had to stand in the doorway. Leaning against the wall there I could both enjoy the cool air and hear the invectives which speaker after speaker was hurling at the Conservative ministry. The audience seemed enthusiastically unanimous. A burst of cheering hailed every argument and sarcasm. There was not one dissentient voice. The speaker paused to moisten his lips, and there was a silence over the hall. Then a clear voice rose from the middle of it: "All very fine, but what did Gladstone----" There was a howl of execration and yells of "Turn him out!" But the voice was still audible. "What did Gladstone do in '63?" it demanded. "Turn him out. Show him out of the window! Put him out!" There was a perfect hurricane of threats and abuse. Men sprang upon the benches shaking their sticks and peering over each other's shoulders to get a glimpse of the daring Conservative. "What did Gladstone do in '63?" roared the voice; "I insist upon being answered." There was another howl of execration, a great swaying of the crowd, and an eddy in the middle of it. Then the mass of people parted and a man was borne out kicking and striking, and after a desperate resistance was precipitated down the stairs. As the meeting became somewhat monotonous after this little divertisement, I went down into the street to cool myself. There was my inquisitive friend leaning up against a lamp-post with his coat torn to shreds and a pipe in his mouth. Recognising him by his cut as being a medical student, I took advantage of the freemasonry which exists between members of that profession. "Excuse me," I said, "you are a medical, aren't you?" "Yes," he said; "Thomas Crabbe, a 'Varsity man." "My name is Barton," I said. "Pardon my curiosity, but would you mind telling me what Gladstone _did_ do in '63?" "My dear chap," said Crabbe, taking my arm and marching up the street with me, "I haven't the remotest idea in the world. You see, I was confoundedly hot and I wanted a smoke, and there seemed no chance of getting out, for I was jammed up right in the middle of the hall, so I thought I'd just make them carry me out; and I did--not a bad idea, was it? If you have nothing better to do, come up to my digs and have some supper." "Certainly," said I; and that was the foundation of my friendship with Thomas Crabbe. Crabbe took his degree a year before I did, and went down to a large port in England with the intention of setting up there. A brilliant career seemed to lie before him, for besides his deep knowledge of medicine, acquired in the most practical school in the world, he had that indescribable manner which gains a patient's confidence at once. It is curious how seldom the two are united. That charming doctor, my dear madam, who pulled the young Charley through the measles so nicely, and had such a pleasant manner and such a clever face, was a noted duffer at college and the laughing-stock of his year. While poor little Doctor Grinder whom you snubbed so, and who seemed so nervous and didn't know where to put his hands, he won a gold medal for original research and was as good a man as his professors. After all, it is generally the outside case, not the inside works, which is noticed in this world. Crabbe went down with his young degree, and a still younger wife, to settle in this town, which we will call Brisport. I was acting as assistant to a medical man in Manchester, and heard little from my former friend, save that he had set up in considerable style, and was making a bid for a high-class practice at once. I read one most deep and erudite paper in a medical journal, entitled "Curious Development of a Discopherous Bone in the Stomach of a Duck," which emanated from his pen, but beyond this and some remarks on the embryology of fishes he seemed strangely quiet. One day to my surprise I received a telegram from Mrs. Crabbe begging me to run down to Brisport and see her husband, as he was far from well. Having obtained leave of absence from my principal, I started by the next train, seriously anxious about my friend. Mrs. Crabbe met me at the station. She told me Tom was getting very much broken down by continued anxiety; the expenses of keeping up his establishment were heavy, and patients were few and far between. He wished my advice and knowledge of practical work to guide him in this crisis. I certainly found Crabbe altered very much for the worse. He looked gaunt and cadaverous, and much of his old reckless joyousness had left him, though he brightened up wonderfully on seeing an old friend. After dinner the three of us held a solemn council of war, in which he laid before me all his difficulties. "What in the world am I to do, Barton?" he said. "If I could make myself known it would be all right, but no one seems to look at my door-plate, and the place is overstocked with doctors. I believe they think I am a D.D. I wouldn't mind if these other fellows were good men, but they are not. They are all antiquated old fogies at least half a century behind the day. Now there is old Markham, who lives in that brick house over there and does most of the practice in the town. I'll swear he doesn't know the difference between locomotor ataxia and a hypodermic syringe, but he is known, so they flock into his surgery in a manner which is simply repulsive. And Davidson down the road, he is only an L.S.A. Talked about epispastic paralysis at the Society the other night--confused it with liquor epispasticus, you know. Yet that fellow makes a pound to my shilling." "Get your name known and write," said I. "But what on earth am I to write about?" asked Crabbe. "If a man has no cases, how in the world is he to describe them? Help yourself and pass the bottle." "Couldn't you invent a case just to raise the wind?" "Not a bad idea," said Crabbe thoughtfully. "By the way, did you see my 'Discopherous Bone in a Duck's Stomach'?" "Yes; it seemed rather good." "Good, I believe you! Why, man, it was a domino which the old duck had managed to gorge itself with. It was a perfect godsend. Then I wrote about embryology of fishes because I knew nothing about it and reasoned that ninety-nine men in a hundred would be in the same boat. But as to inventing whole cases, it seems rather daring, does it not?" "A desperate disease needs desperate remedies," said I. "You remember old Hobson at college. He writes once a year to the British Medical and asks if any correspondent can tell him how much it costs to keep a horse in the country. And then he signs himself in the Medical Register as 'The contributor of several unostentatious queries and remarks to scientific papers!'" It was quite a treat to hear Crabbe laugh with his old student guffaw. "Well, old man," he said, "we'll talk it over to-morrow. We mustn't be selfish and forget that you are a visitor here. Come along out, and see the beauties (save the mark!) of Brisport." So saying he donned a funereal coat, a pair of spectacles, and a hat with a desponding brim, and we spent the remainder of the evening roaming about and discussing mind and matter. We had another council of war next day. It was a Sunday, and as we sat in the window, smoking our pipes and watching the crowded street, we brooded over many plans for gaining notoriety. "I've done Bob Sawyer's dodge," said Tom despondingly. "I never go to church without rushing out in the middle of the sermon, but no one knows who I am, so it is no good. I had a nice slide in front of the door last winter for three weeks, and used to give it a polish up after dusk every night. But there was only one man ever fell on it, and he actually limped right across the road to Markham's surgery. Wasn't that hard lines?" "Very hard indeed," said I. "Something might be done with orange peel," continued Tom, "but it looks so awfully bad to have the whole pavement yellow with peel in front of a doctor's house." "It certainly does," I agreed. "There was one fellow came in with a cut head one night," said Tom, "and I sewed him up, but he had forgotten his purse. He came back in a week to have the stitches taken out, but without the money. That man is going about to this day, Jack, with half a yard of my catgut in him--and in him it'll stay until I see the coin." "Couldn't we get up some incident," said I, "which would bring your name really prominently before the public?" "My dear fellow, that's exactly what I want. If I could get my name into the _Brisport Chronicle_ it would be worth five hundred a year to me. There's a family connection, you know, and people only want to realise that I am here. But how am I to do it unless by brawling in the street or by increasing my family? Now, there was the excitement about the discopherous bone. If Huxley or some of these fellows had taken the matter up it might have been the making of me. But they took it all in with a disgusting complacency as if it was the most usual thing in the world and dominoes were the normal food of ducks. I'll tell you what I'll do," he continued, moodily eyeing his fowls. "I'll puncture the floors of their fourth ventricles and present them to Markham. You know that makes them ravenous, and they'd eat him out of house and home in time. Eh, Jack?" "Look here, Thomas," said I, "you want your name in the papers--is that it?" "That's about the state of the case." "Well, by Jove, you shall have it." "Eh? Why? How?" "There's a pretty considerable crowd of people outside, isn't there, Tom?" I continued. "They are coming out of church, aren't they? If there was an accident now it would make some noise." "I say, you're not going to let rip among them with a shot gun, are you, in order to found a practice for me?" "No, not exactly. But how would this read in tomorrow's _Chronicle_?--'Painful occurrence in George Street.--As the congregation were leaving George Street Cathedral after the morning service, they were horrified to see a handsome, fashionably dressed gentleman stagger and fall senseless upon the pavement. He was taken up and carried writhing in terrible convulsions into the surgery of the well-known practitioner Doctor Crabbe, who had been promptly upon the spot. We are happy to state that the fit rapidly passed off, and that, owing to the skilful attention which he received, the gentleman, who is a distinguished visitor in our city, was able to regain his hotel and is now rapidly becoming convalescent.' How would that do, eh?" "Splendid, Jack--splendid!" "Well, my boy, I'm your fashionably dressed stranger, and I promise you they won't carry me into Markham's." "My dear fellow, you are a treasure--you won't mind my bleeding you?" "Bleeding me, confound you! Yes, I do very much mind." "Just opening a little vein," pleaded Tom. "Not a capillary," said I. "Now, look here; I'll throw up the whole business unless you give me your word to behave yourself. I don't draw the line at brandy." "Very well, brandy be it," grumbled Tom. "Well, I'm off," said I. "I'll go into the fit against your garden gate." "All right, old man." "By the way, what sort of a fit would you like? I could give you either an epileptic or an apoplectic easily, but perhaps you'd like something more ornate--a catalepsy or a trade spasm, maybe--with miner's nystagmus or something of that kind?" "Wait a bit till I think," said Tom, and he sat puffing at his pipe for five minutes. "Sit down again, Jack," he continued. "I think we could do something better than this. You see, a fit isn't a very deadly thing, and if I did bring you through one there would be no credit in it. If we are going to work this thing, we may as well work it well. We can only do it once. It wouldn't do for the same fashionably dressed stranger to be turning up a second time. People would begin to smell a rat." "So they would," said I; "but hang it, you can't expect me to tumble off the cathedral spire, in order that you may hold an inquest on my remains! I You may command me in anything reasonable, however. What shall it be?" Tom seemed lost in thought. "Can you swim?" he said presently. "Fairly well." "You could keep yourself afloat for five minutes?" "Yes, I could do that." "You're not afraid of water?" "I'm not much afraid of anything." "Then come out," said Tom, "and we'll go over the ground." I couldn't get one word out of him as to his intentions, so I trotted along beside him, wondering what in the wide world he was going to do. Our first stoppage was at a small dock which is crossed by a swinging iron bridge. He hailed an amphibious man with top-boots. "Do you keep rowing-boats and let them out?" he asked. "Yes, sir," said the man. "Then good day," and to the boatman's profound and audible disgust we set off at once in the other direction. Our next stoppage was at the Jolly Mariner's Arms. Did they keep beds? Yes, they kept beds. We then proceeded to the chemist's. Did he keep a galvanic battery? Once again the answer was in the affirmative, and with a satisfied smile Tom Crabbe headed for home once more, leaving some very angry people behind him. That evening over a bowl of punch he revealed his plan--and the council of three revised it, modified it, and ended by adopting it, with the immediate result that I at once changed my quarters to the Brisport Hotel. I was awakened next day by the sun streaming in at my bedroom window. It was a glorious morning. I sprang out of bed and looked at my watch. It was nearly nine o'clock. "Only an hour," I muttered, "and nearly a mile to walk," and proceeded to dress with all the haste I could. "Well," I soliloquised as I sharpened my razor, "if old Tom Crabbe doesn't get his name in the papers to-day, it isn't my fault. I wonder if any friend would do as much for me!" I finished my toilet, swallowed a cup of coffee and sallied out. Brisport seemed unusually lively this morning. The streets were crowded with people. I wormed my way down Waterloo Street through the old Square and past Crabbe's house. The cathedral bells were chiming ten o'clock as I reached the above-mentioned little dock with the iron swinging bridge. A man was standing on the bridge leaning over the balustrades. There was no mistaking the heart-broken hat rim and the spectacles of Thomas Waterhouse Crabbe, M.B. I passed him without sign of recognition, dawdled a little on the quay, and then sauntered down to the boathouse. Our friend of yesterday was standing at the door with a short pipe in his mouth. "Could I have a boat for an hour?" I asked. He beamed all over. "One minute, sir," he said, "an' I'll get the sculls. Would you want me to row you, sir?" "Yes, you'd better," I replied. He bustled about, and in a short time managed to launch a leaky-looking old tub, into which he stepped, while I squatted down in the sheets. "Take me round the docks," I said. "I want to have a look at the shipping." "Aye, aye, sir," said he, and away we went, and paddled about the docks for the best part of an hour. At the end of that time we turned back and pulled up to the little quay from which he had started. It was past eleven now and the place was crowded with people. Half Brisport seemed to have concentrated round the iron bridge. The melancholy hat was still visible. "Shall I pull in, sir?" asked the boatman. "Give me the sculls," said I. "I want a bit of exercise--let us change places," and I stood up. "Take care, sir!" yelled the boatman as I gave a stagger. "Look out!" and he made a frantic grab at me, but too late, for with a melodramatic scream I reeled and fell over into the Brisport dock. I hardly realised what it was I was going to do until I had done it. It was not a pleasant feeling to have the thick, clammy water closing over one's head. I struck the bottom with my feet, and shot up again to the surface. The air seemed alive with shouts. "Heave a rope!" "Where's a boat-hook!" "Catch him!" "There he is!" The boatman managed to hit me me a smart blow on the head with something, an oar, I fancy, and I went down again, but not before I had got my lungs well filled with air. I came up again and my top-booted friend seized me by the hair of my head as if he would tear my scalp off. "Don't struggle!" he yelled, "and I'll save you yet." But I shook him off, and took another plunge. There was no resisting him next time, however, for he got a boat-hook into my collar, and though I kept my head under water as long as possible I was ignominiously hauled to land. There I lay on the hard stones of the quay, feeling very much inclined to laugh, but looking, no doubt, very blue and ghastly. "He's gone, poor chap!" said some one. "Send for a doctor." "Run, run to Markham." "Quite dead." "Turn him upside down." "Feel his pulse." "Slap him on the back." "Stop," said a solemn voice--"stop! Can I be of any assistance? I am a medical man. What has occurred?" "A man drowned," cried a score of voices. "Stand back, make a ring--room for the doctor!" "My name is Doctor Crabbe. Dear me, poor young gentleman! Drop his hand," he roared at a man who was making for my pulse. "I tell you in such a state the least pressure or impediment to the arterial circulation might prove fatal." To save my life I couldn't help giving a very audible inward chuckle at Tom's presence of mind. There was a murmur of surprise among the crowd. Tom solemnly took off his hat. "The death rattle!" he whispered. "The young soul has flown--yet perchance science may yet recall it. Bear him up to the tavern." A shutter was brought, I was solemnly hoisted on to the top of it, and the melancholy cortège passed along the quay, the corpse being really the most cheerful member of the company. We got to the Mariner's Arms and I was stripped and laid in the best bed. The news of the accident seemed to have spread, for there was a surging crowd in the street, and the staircase was thronged with people. Tom would only admit about a dozen of the more influential of the townspeople into the room, but issued bulletins out of the window every five minutes to the crowd below. "Quite dead," I heard him roar. "Respiration has ceased--no pulsation--but we still persevere, it is our duty." "Shall I bring brandy?" said the landlady. "Yes, and towels, and a hip bath and a basin--but the brandy first." This sentiment met with the hearty approbation of the corpse. "Why, he's drinking it," said the landlady, as she applied the glass to my lips. "Merely an instance of a reflex automatic action," said Tom. "My good woman, any corpse will drink brandy if you only apply it to the glossopharyngeal tract. Stand aside and we will proceed to try Marshall Hall's method of resuscitation." The citizens stood round in a solemn ring, while Tom stripped off his coat and, climbing on the bed, proceeded to roll me about in a manner which seemed to dislocate every bone in my body. "Hang it, man, stop!" I growled, but he only paused to make a dart for the window and yell out "No sign of life," and then fell upon me with greater energy than ever. "We will now try Sylvestre's method," he said, when the perspiration was fairly boiling out of him; and with that he seized me again, and performed a series of evolutions even more excruciating than the first. "It is hopeless!" he said at last, stopping and covering my head reverently with the bed-clothes. "Send for the coroner! He has gone to a better land. Here is my card," he continued to an inspector of police who had arrived. "Doctor Crabbe of George Street. You will see that the matter is accurately reported. Poor young man!" And Tom drew his handkerchief across his eyes and walked towards the door, while a groan of sympathy rose from the crowd outside. He had his hand upon the handle when a thought seemed to strike him, and he turned back. "There is yet a possible hope," he said, "we have not tried the magical effects of electricity--that subtle power, next of kin to nervous force. Is there a chemist's near?" "Yes, doctor, there's Mr. McLagan just round the corner." "Then run! run! A human life trembles in the balance--get his strongest battery, quick!" And away went half the crowd racing down the street and tumbling over each other in the effort to be first at Mr. McLagan's. They came back very red and hot, and one of them bore a shining brown mahogany box in his arms which contained the instrument in question. "Now, gentlemen," said Tom, "I believe I may say that I am the first practitioner in Great Britain who has applied electricity to this use. In my student days I have seen the learned Rokilansky of Vienna employ it in some such way. I apply the negative pole over the solar plexus, while the positive I place on the inner side of the patella. I have seen it produce surprising effects; it may again in this case." It certainly did. Whether it was an accident or whether Tom's innate reckless devilry got the better of him I cannot say. He himself always swore that it was an accident, but at any rate he sent the strongest current of a most powerful battery rattling and crashing through my system. I gave one ear-splitting yell and landed with a single bound into the middle of the room. I was charged with electricity like a Leyden jar. My very hair bristled with it. "You confounded idiot!" I shouted, shaking my fist in Tom's face. "Isn't it enough to dislocate every bone in my body with your ridiculous resuscitations without ruining my constitution with this thing?" and I gave a vicious kick at the mahogany box. Never was there such a stampede! The inspector of police and the correspondent of the _Chronicle_ sprang down the staircase, followed by the twelve respectable citizens. The landlady crawled under the bed. A lodger who was nursing her baby while she conversed with a neighbour in the street below let the child drop upon her friend's head. In fact Tom might have founded the nucleus of a practice there and then. As it was, his usual presence of mind carried him through. "A miracle!" he yelled from the window. "A miracle! Our friend has been brought back to us; send for a cab." And then _sotto voce_, "For goodness' sake, Jack, behave like a Christian and crawl into bed again. Remember the landlady is in the room and don't go prancing about in your shirt." "Hang the landlady," said I, "I feel like a lightning conductor--you've ruined me!" "Poor fellow," cried Tom, once more addressing the crowd, "he is alive, but his intellect is irretrievably affected. He thinks he is a lightning conductor. Make way for the cab. That's right! Now help me to lead him in. He is out of all danger now. He can dress at his hotel. If any of you have any information to give which may throw light upon this case my address is 81 George Street. Remember, Doctor Crabbe, 81 George Street. Good day, kind friends, good-bye!" And with that he bundled me into the cab to prevent my making any further disclosures, and drove off amid the enthusiastic cheers of the admiring crowd. I could not stay in Brisport long enough to see the effect of my _coup d'état_. Tom gave us a champagne supper that night, and the fun was fast and furious, but in the midst of it a telegram from my principal was handed in ordering me to return to Manchester by the next train. I waited long enough to get an early copy of the _Brisport Chronicle_, and beguiled the tedious journey by perusing the glowing account of my mishap. A column and a half was devoted to Dr. Crabbe and the extraordinary effects of electricity upon a drowned man. It ultimately got into some of the London papers, and was gravely commented upon in the _Lancet_. As to the pecuniary success of our little experiment I can only judge from the following letter from Tom Crabbe, which I transcribe exactly as I received it: "WHAT HO! MY RESUSCITATED CORPSE, "You want to know how all goes in Brisport, I suppose. Well, I'll tell you. I'm cutting Markham and Davidson out completely, my boy. The day after our little joke I got a bruised leg (that baby), a cut head (the woman the baby fell upon), an erysipelas, and a bronchitis. Next day a fine rich cancer of Markham's threw him up and came over to me. Also a pneumonia and a man who swallowed a sixpence. I've never had a day since without half a dozen new names on the list, and I'm going to start a trap this week. Just let me know when you are going to set up, and I'll manage to run down, old man, and give you a start in business, if I have to stand on my head in the water-butt. Good-bye. Love from the Missus. "Ever yours, "THOMAS WATERHOUSE CRABBE, "M.B. Edin. "81 George Street, "Brisport." THE END By SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE _Novels and Stories_ DANGER! _And Other Stories_ THE DOINGS OF RAFFLES HAW HIS LAST BOW _Some Latin Reminiscences of Sherlock Holmes_ THE BLACK DOCTOR _And Other Tales of Terror and Mystery_ THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL _And Other Tales of Adventure_ THE CROXLEY MASTER _And Other Tales of the Ring and Camp_ THE GREAT KEINPLATZ EXPERIMENT _And Other Tales of Twilight and the Unseen_ THE LAST OF THE LEGIONS _And Other Tales of Long Ago_ THE DEALINGS OF CAPTAIN SHARKEY _And Other Tales of Pirates_ _On the Life Hereafter_ THE NEW REVELATION THE VITAL MESSAGE THE COMING OF THE FAIRIES THE CASE FOR SPIRIT PHOTOGRAPHY THE WANDERINGS OF A SPIRITUALIST OUR AMERICAN ADVENTURE _A History of the Great War_ THE BRITISH CAMPAIGN IN FRANCE AND FLANDERS--Six Vols. _Poems_ THE GUARDS CAME THROUGH 
35997	----	THE JUNGLE BOOK [Illustration: Rudyard Kipling] [Illustration: "LITTLE TOOMAI LAID HIMSELF DOWN CLOSE TO THE GREAT NECK LEST A SWINGING BOUGH SHOULD SWEEP HIM TO THE GROUND." (SEE PAGE 246.)] THE JUNGLE BOOK BY RUDYARD KIPLING [Illustration] NEW YORK THE CENTURY CO. 1910 Copyright 1893, 1894, by RUDYARD KIPLING Copyright, 1894, by HARPER and BROTHERS Copyright 1893, 1894, by THE CENTURY CO. CONTENTS PAGE MOWGLI'S BROTHERS 1 HUNTING-SONG OF THE SEEONEE PACK 42 KAA'S HUNTING 47 ROAD-SONG OF THE BANDAR-LOG 89 "TIGER! TIGER!" 93 MOWGLI'S SONG 131 THE WHITE SEAL 137 LUKANNON 170 "RIKKI-TIKKI-TAVI" 175 DARZEE'S CHAUNT 212 TOOMAI OF THE ELEPHANTS 217 SHIV AND THE GRASSHOPPER 261 HER MAJESTY'S SERVANTS 265 PARADE-SONG OF THE CAMP ANIMALS 300 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE "LITTLE TOOMAI LAID HIMSELF DOWN CLOSE TO THE GREAT NECK, LEST A SWINGING BOUGH SHOULD SWEEP HIM TO THE GROUND" FRONTISPIECE "'GOOD LUCK GO WITH YOU, O CHIEF OF THE WOLVES'" 5 "THE TIGER'S ROAR FILLED THE CAVE WITH THUNDER" 11 THE MEETING AT THE COUNCIL ROCK 17 "BAGHEERA WOULD LIE OUT ON A BRANCH AND CALL, 'COME ALONG, LITTLE BROTHER'" 23 "'WAKE, LITTLE BROTHER; I BRING NEWS'" 99 "'ARE ALL THESE TALES SUCH COBWEBS AND MOON-TALK?' SAID MOWGLI" 105 "BULDEO LAY AS STILL, AS STILL, EXPECTING EVERY MINUTE TO SEE MOWGLI TURN INTO A TIGER, TOO" 121 "WHEN THE MOON ROSE OVER THE PLAIN THE VILLAGERS SAW MOWGLI TROTTING ACROSS, WITH TWO WOLVES AT HIS HEELS" 126 "THEY CLAMBERED UP ON THE COUNCIL ROCK TOGETHER, AND MOWGLI SPREAD THE SKIN OUT ON THE FLAT STONE" 129 "TEN FATHOMS DEEP" 146 "THEY WERE ALL AWAKE AND STARING IN EVERY DIRECTION BUT THE RIGHT ONE" 154 "HE HAD FOUND SEA COW AT LAST" 162 "RIKKI-TIKKI LOOKED DOWN BETWEEN THE BOY'S COLLAR AND NECK" 177 "HE PUT HIS NOSE INTO THE INK" 178 "RIKKI-TIKKI WAS AWAKE ON THE PILLOW" 179 "HE CAME TO BREAKFAST RIDING ON TEDDY'S SHOULDER" 180 "'WE ARE VERY MISERABLE,' SAID DARZEE" 181 "'I AM NAG,' SAID THE COBRA: 'LOOK, AND BE AFRAID.' BUT AT THE BOTTOM OF HIS COLD HEART _HE_ WAS AFRAID" 183 "HE JUMPED UP IN THE AIR, AND JUST UNDER HIM WHIZZED BY THE HEAD OF NAGAINA" 187 "IN THE DARK HE RAN UP AGAINST CHUCHUNDRA, THE MUSKRAT" 192 "THEN RIKKI-TIKKI WAS BATTERED TO AND FRO AS A RAT IS SHAKEN BY A DOG" 197 DARZEE'S WIFE PRETENDS TO HAVE A BROKEN WING 201 "NAGAINA FLEW DOWN THE PATH WITH RIKKI-TIKKI BEHIND HER" 207 "IT IS ALL OVER" 210 "KALA NAG WAS THE BEST-LOVED ELEPHANT IN THE SERVICE" 219 "'HE IS AFRAID OF ME,' SAID LITTLE TOOMAI, AND HE MADE KALA NAG LIFT UP HIS FEET ONE AFTER THE OTHER" 223 "HE WOULD GET HIS TORCH AND WAVE IT, AND YELL WITH THE BEST" 229 "'NOT GREEN CORN, PROTECTOR OF THE POOR,--MELONS,' SAID LITTLE TOOMAI" 235 "LITTLE TOOMAI LOOKED DOWN UPON SCORES AND SCORES OF BROAD BACKS" 251 "'TO TOOMAI OF THE ELEPHANTS. BARRAO!'" 259 "A CAMEL HAD BLUNDERED INTO MY TENT" 267 "'ANYBODY CAN BE FORGIVEN FOR BEING SCARED IN THE NIGHT,' SAID THE TROOP-HORSE" 275 "'THE MAN WAS LYING ON THE GROUND, AND I STRETCHED MYSELF NOT TO TREAD ON HIM, AND HE SLASHED UP AT ME'" 279 "THEN I HEARD AN OLD, GRIZZLED, LONG-HAIRED CENTRAL ASIAN CHIEF ASKING QUESTIONS OF A NATIVE OFFICER" 297 THE JUNGLE BOOK Now Rann, the Kite, brings home the night That Mang, the Bat, sets free-- The herds are shut in byre and hut, For loosed till dawn are we. This is the hour of pride and power, Talon and tush and claw. Oh, hear the call!--Good hunting all That keep the Jungle Law! _Night-Song in the Jungle._ [Illustration] MOWGLI'S BROTHERS IT was seven o'clock of a very warm evening in the Seeonee hills when Father Wolf woke up from his day's rest, scratched himself, yawned, and spread out his paws one after the other to get rid of the sleepy feeling in the tips. Mother Wolf lay with her big gray nose dropped across her four tumbling, squealing cubs, and the moon shone into the mouth of the cave where they all lived. "Augrh!" said Father Wolf, "it is time to hunt again"; and he was going to spring downhill when a little shadow with a bushy tail crossed the threshold and whined: "Good luck go with you, O Chief of the Wolves; and good luck and strong white teeth go with the noble children, that they may never forget the hungry in this world." [Illustration: "'GOOD LUCK GO WITH YOU, O CHIEF OF THE WOLVES.'"] It was the jackal--Tabaqui, the Dish-licker--and the wolves of India despise Tabaqui because he runs about making mischief, and telling tales, and eating rags and pieces of leather from the village rubbish-heaps. They are afraid of him too, because Tabaqui, more than any one else in the jungle, is apt to go mad, and then he forgets that he was ever afraid of any one, and runs through the forest biting everything in his way. Even the tiger hides when little Tabaqui goes mad, for madness is the most disgraceful thing that can overtake a wild creature. We call it hydrophobia, but they call it _dewanee_--the madness--and run. "Enter, then, and look," said Father Wolf, stiffly; "but there is no food here." "For a wolf, no," said Tabaqui; "but for so mean a person as myself a dry bone is a good feast. Who are we, the Gidur-log [the Jackal People], to pick and choose?" He scuttled to the back of the cave, where he found the bone of a buck with some meat on it, and sat cracking the end merrily. "All thanks for this good meal," he said, licking his lips. "How beautiful are the noble children! How large are their eyes! And so young too! Indeed, indeed, I might have remembered that the children of kings are men from the beginning." Now, Tabaqui knew as well as any one else that there is nothing so unlucky as to compliment children to their faces; and it pleased him to see Mother and Father Wolf look uncomfortable. Tabaqui sat still, rejoicing in the mischief that he had made, and then he said spitefully: "Shere Khan, the Big One, has shifted his hunting-grounds. He will hunt among these hills during the next moon, so he has told me." Shere Khan was the tiger who lived near the Waingunga River, twenty miles away. "He has no right!" Father Wolf began angrily. "By the Law of the Jungle he has no right to change his quarters without fair warning. He will frighten every head of game within ten miles; and I--I have to kill for two, these days." "His mother did not call him Lungri [the Lame One] for nothing," said Mother Wolf, quietly. "He has been lame in one foot from his birth. That is why he has only killed cattle. Now the villagers of the Waingunga are angry with him, and he has come here to make _our_ villagers angry. They will scour the jungle for him when he is far away, and we and our children must run when the grass is set alight. Indeed, we are very grateful to Shere Khan!" "Shall I tell him of your gratitude?" said Tabaqui. "Out!" snapped Father Wolf. "Out, and hunt with thy master. Thou hast done harm enough for one night." "I go," said Tabaqui, quietly. "Ye can hear Shere Khan below in the thickets. I might have saved myself the message." Father Wolf listened, and in the dark valley that ran down to a little river, he heard the dry, angry, snarly, singsong whine of a tiger who has caught nothing and does not care if all the jungle knows it. "The fool!" said Father Wolf. "To begin a night's work with that noise! Does he think that our buck are like his fat Waingunga bullocks?" "H'sh! It is neither bullock nor buck that he hunts to-night," said Mother Wolf; "it is Man." The whine had changed to a sort of humming purr that seemed to roll from every quarter of the compass. It was the noise that bewilders wood-cutters, and gipsies sleeping in the open, and makes them run sometimes into the very mouth of the tiger. "Man!" said Father Wolf, showing all his white teeth. "Faugh! Are there not enough beetles and frogs in the tanks that he must eat Man--and on our ground too!" The Law of the Jungle, which never orders anything without a reason, forbids every beast to eat Man except when he is killing to show his children how to kill, and then he must hunt outside the hunting-grounds of his pack or tribe. The real reason for this is that man-killing means, sooner or later, the arrival of white men on elephants, with guns, and hundreds of brown men with gongs and rockets and torches. Then everybody in the jungle suffers. The reason the beasts give among themselves is that Man is the weakest and most defenseless of all living things, and it is unsportsmanlike to touch him. They say too--and it is true--that man-eaters become mangy, and lose their teeth. The purr grew louder, and ended in the full-throated "Aaarh!" of the tiger's charge. Then there was a howl--an untigerish howl--from Shere Khan. "He has missed," said Mother Wolf. "What is it?" Father Wolf ran out a few paces and heard Shere Khan muttering and mumbling savagely, as he tumbled about in the scrub. "The fool has had no more sense than to jump at a wood-cutters' camp-fire, so he has burned his feet," said Father Wolf, with a grunt. "Tabaqui is with him." "Something is coming uphill," said Mother Wolf, twitching one ear. "Get ready." The bushes rustled a little in the thicket, and Father Wolf dropped with his haunches under him, ready for his leap. Then, if you had been watching, you would have seen the most wonderful thing in the world--the wolf checked in mid-spring. He made his bound before he saw what it was he was jumping at, and then he tried to stop himself. The result was that he shot up straight into the air for four or five feet, landing almost where he left ground. "Man!" he snapped. "A man's cub. Look!" Directly in front of him, holding on by a low branch, stood a naked brown baby who could just walk--as soft and as dimpled a little thing as ever came to a wolf's cave at night. He looked up into Father Wolf's face and laughed. "Is that a man's cub?" said Mother Wolf. "I have never seen one. Bring it here." A wolf accustomed to moving his own cubs can, if necessary, mouth an egg without breaking it, and though Father Wolf's jaws closed right on the child's back not a tooth even scratched the skin, as he laid it down among the cubs. "How little! How naked, and--how bold!" said Mother Wolf, softly. The baby was pushing his way between the cubs to get close to the warm hide. "Ahai! He is taking his meal with the others. And so this is a man's cub. Now, was there ever a wolf that could boast of a man's cub among her children?" "I have heard now and again of such a thing, but never in our pack or in my time," said Father Wolf. "He is altogether without hair, and I could kill him with a touch of my foot. But see, he looks up and is not afraid." The moonlight was blocked out of the mouth of the cave, for Shere Khan's great square head and shoulders were thrust into the entrance. Tabaqui, behind him, was squeaking: "My Lord, my Lord, it went in here!" "Shere Khan does us great honor," said Father Wolf, but his eyes were very angry. "What does Shere Khan need?" "My quarry. A man's cub went this way," said Shere Khan. "Its parents have run off. Give it to me." Shere Khan had jumped at a wood-cutter's camp-fire, as Father Wolf had said, and was furious from the pain of his burned feet. But Father Wolf knew that the mouth of the cave was too narrow for a tiger to come in by. Even where he was, Shere Khan's shoulders and fore paws were cramped for want of room, as a man's would be if he tried to fight in a barrel. "The Wolves are a free people," said Father Wolf. "They take orders from the Head of the Pack, and not from any striped cattle-killer. The man's cub is ours--to kill if we choose." "Ye choose and ye do not choose! What talk is this of choosing? By the Bull that I killed, am I to stand nosing into your dog's den for my fair dues? It is I, Shere Khan, who speak!" The tiger's roar filled the cave with thunder. Mother Wolf shook herself clear of the cubs and sprang forward, her eyes, like two green moons in the darkness, facing the blazing eyes of Shere Khan. [Illustration: "THE TIGER'S ROAR FILLED THE CAVE WITH THUNDER."] "And it is I, Raksha [the Demon], who answer. The man's cub is mine, Lungri--mine to me! He shall not be killed. He shall live to run with the Pack and to hunt with the Pack; and in the end, look you, hunter of little naked cubs--frog-eater--fish-killer, he shall hunt _thee_! Now get hence, or by the Sambhur that I killed (_I_ eat no starved cattle), back thou goest to thy mother, burned beast of the jungle, lamer than ever thou camest into the world! Go!" Father Wolf looked on amazed. He had almost forgotten the days when he won Mother Wolf in fair fight from five other wolves, when she ran in the Pack and was not called the Demon for compliment's sake. Shere Khan might have faced Father Wolf, but he could not stand up against Mother Wolf, for he knew that where he was she had all the advantage of the ground, and would fight to the death. So he backed out of the cave-mouth growling, and when he was clear he shouted: "Each dog barks in his own yard! We will see what the Pack will say to this fostering of man-cubs. The cub is mine, and to my teeth he will come in the end, O bush-tailed thieves!" Mother Wolf threw herself down panting among the cubs, and Father Wolf said to her gravely: "Shere Khan speaks this much truth. The cub must be shown to the Pack. Wilt thou still keep him, Mother?" "Keep him!" she gasped. "He came naked, by night, alone and very hungry; yet he was not afraid! Look, he has pushed one of my babes to one side already. And that lame butcher would have killed him, and would have run off to the Waingunga while the villagers here hunted through all our lairs in revenge! Keep him? Assuredly I will keep him. Lie still, little frog. O thou Mowgli,--for Mowgli, the Frog, I will call thee,--the time will come when thou wilt hunt Shere Khan as he has hunted thee!" "But what will our Pack say?" said Father Wolf. The Law of the Jungle lays down very clearly that any wolf may, when he marries, withdraw from the Pack he belongs to; but as soon as his cubs are old enough to stand on their feet he must bring them to the Pack Council, which is generally held once a month at full moon, in order that the other wolves may identify them. After that inspection the cubs are free to run where they please, and until they have killed their first buck no excuse is accepted if a grown wolf of the Pack kills one of them. The punishment is death where the murderer can be found; and if you think for a minute you will see that this must be so. Father Wolf waited till his cubs could run a little, and then on the night of the Pack Meeting took them and Mowgli and Mother Wolf to the Council Rock--a hilltop covered with stones and boulders where a hundred wolves could hide. Akela, the great gray Lone Wolf, who led all the Pack by strength and cunning, lay out at full length on his rock, and below him sat forty or more wolves of every size and color, from badger-colored veterans who could handle a buck alone, to young black three-year-olds who thought they could. The Lone Wolf had led them for a year now. He had fallen twice into a wolf-trap in his youth, and once he had been beaten and left for dead; so he knew the manners and customs of men. [Illustration: THE MEETING AT THE COUNCIL ROCK.] There was very little talking at the Rock. The cubs tumbled over one another in the center of the circle where their mothers and fathers sat, and now and again a senior wolf would go quietly up to a cub, look at him carefully, and return to his place on noiseless feet. Sometimes a mother would push her cub far out into the moonlight, to be sure that he had not been overlooked. Akela from his rock would cry: "Ye know the Law--ye know the Law! Look well, O Wolves!" And the anxious mothers would take up the call: "Look--look well, O Wolves!" At last--and Mother Wolf's neck-bristles lifted as the time came--Father Wolf pushed "Mowgli, the Frog," as they called him, into the center, where he sat laughing and playing with some pebbles that glistened in the moonlight. Akela never raised his head from his paws, but went on with the monotonous cry, "Look well!" A muffled roar came up from behind the rocks--the voice of Shere Khan crying, "The cub is mine; give him to me. What have the Free People to do with a man's cub?" Akela never even twitched his ears. All he said was, "Look well, O Wolves! What have the Free People to do with the orders of any save the Free People? Look well!" There was a chorus of deep growls, and a young wolf in his fourth year flung back Shere Khan's question to Akela: "What have the Free People to do with a man's cub?" Now the Law of the Jungle lays down that if there is any dispute as to the right of a cub to be accepted by the Pack, he must be spoken for by at least two members of the Pack who are not his father and mother. "Who speaks for this cub?" said Akela. "Among the Free People, who speaks?" There was no answer, and Mother Wolf got ready for what she knew would be her last fight, if things came to fighting. Then the only other creature who is allowed at the Pack Council--Baloo, the sleepy brown bear who teaches the wolf cubs the Law of the Jungle; old Baloo, who can come and go where he pleases because he eats only nuts and roots and honey--rose up on his hind quarters and grunted. "The man's cub--the man's cub?" he said. "_I_ speak for the man's cub. There is no harm in a man's cub. I have no gift of words, but I speak the truth. Let him run with the Pack, and be entered with the others. I myself will teach him." "We need yet another," said Akela. "Baloo has spoken, and he is our teacher for the young cubs. Who speaks besides Baloo?" A black shadow dropped down into the circle. It was Bagheera, the Black Panther, inky black all over, but with the panther markings showing up in certain lights like the pattern of watered silk. Everybody knew Bagheera, and nobody cared to cross his path; for he was as cunning as Tabaqui, as bold as the wild buffalo, and as reckless as the wounded elephant. But he had a voice as soft as wild honey dripping from a tree, and a skin softer than down. "O Akela, and ye, the Free People," he purred, "I have no right in your assembly; but the Law of the Jungle says that if there is a doubt which is not a killing matter in regard to a new cub, the life of that cub may be bought at a price. And the Law does not say who may or may not pay that price. Am I right?" "Good! good!" said the young wolves, who are always hungry. "Listen to Bagheera. The cub can be bought for a price. It is the Law." "Knowing that I have no right to speak here, I ask your leave." "Speak then," cried twenty voices. "To kill a naked cub is shame. Besides, he may make better sport for you when he is grown. Baloo has spoken in his behalf. Now to Baloo's word I will add one bull, and a fat one, newly killed, not half a mile from here, if ye will accept the man's cub according to the Law. Is it difficult?" There was a clamor of scores of voices, saying: "What matter? He will die in the winter rains. He will scorch in the sun. What harm can a naked frog do us? Let him run with the Pack. Where is the bull, Bagheera? Let him be accepted." And then came Akela's deep bay, crying: "Look well--look well, O Wolves!" Mowgli was still playing with the pebbles, and he did not notice when the wolves came and looked at him one by one. At last they all went down the hill for the dead bull, and only Akela, Bagheera, Baloo, and Mowgli's own wolves were left. Shere Khan roared still in the night, for he was very angry that Mowgli had not been handed over to him. "Ay, roar well," said Bagheera, under his whiskers; "for the time comes when this naked thing will make thee roar to another tune, or I know nothing of Man." "It was well done," said Akela. "Men and their cubs are very wise. He may be a help in time." "Truly, a help in time of need; for none can hope to lead the Pack forever," said Bagheera. Akela said nothing. He was thinking of the time that comes to every leader of every pack when his strength goes from him and he gets feebler and feebler, till at last he is killed by the wolves and a new leader comes up--to be killed in his turn. "Take him away," he said to Father Wolf, "and train him as befits one of the Free People." And that is how Mowgli was entered into the Seeonee wolf-pack for the price of a bull and on Baloo's good word. Now you must be content to skip ten or eleven whole years, and only guess at all the wonderful life that Mowgli led among the wolves, because if it were written out it would fill ever so many books. He grew up with the cubs, though they of course were grown wolves almost before he was a child, and Father Wolf taught him his business, and the meaning of things in the jungle, till every rustle in the grass, every breath of the warm night air, every note of the owls above his head, every scratch of a bat's claws as it roosted for a while in a tree, and every splash of every little fish jumping in a pool, meant just as much to him as the work of his office means to a business man. When he was not learning he sat out in the sun and slept, and ate, and went to sleep again; when he felt dirty or hot he swam in the forest pools; and when he wanted honey (Baloo told him that honey and nuts were just as pleasant to eat as raw meat) he climbed up for it, and that Bagheera showed him how to do. Bagheera would lie out on a branch and call, "Come along, Little Brother," and at first Mowgli would cling like the sloth, but afterward he would fling himself through the branches almost as boldly as the gray ape. He took his place at the Council Rock, too, when the Pack met, and there he discovered that if he stared hard at any wolf, the wolf would be forced to drop his eyes, and so he used to stare for fun. [Illustration: "BAGHEERA WOULD LIE OUT ON A BRANCH AND CALL, 'COME ALONG, LITTLE BROTHER.'"] At other times he would pick the long thorns out of the pads of his friends, for wolves suffer terribly from thorns and burs in their coats. He would go down the hillside into the cultivated lands by night, and look very curiously at the villagers in their huts, but he had a mistrust of men because Bagheera showed him a square box with a drop-gate so cunningly hidden in the jungle that he nearly walked into it, and told him it was a trap. He loved better than anything else to go with Bagheera into the dark warm heart of the forest, to sleep all through the drowsy day, and at night see how Bagheera did his killing. Bagheera killed right and left as he felt hungry, and so did Mowgli--with one exception. As soon as he was old enough to understand things, Bagheera told him that he must never touch cattle because he had been bought into the Pack at the price of a bull's life. "All the jungle is thine," said Bagheera, "and thou canst kill everything that thou art strong enough to kill; but for the sake of the bull that bought thee thou must never kill or eat any cattle young or old. That is the Law of the Jungle." Mowgli obeyed faithfully. And he grew and grew strong as a boy must grow who does not know that he is learning any lessons, and who has nothing in the world to think of except things to eat. Mother Wolf told him once or twice that Shere Khan was not a creature to be trusted, and that some day he must kill Shere Khan; but though a young wolf would have remembered that advice every hour, Mowgli forgot it because he was only a boy--though he would have called himself a wolf if he had been able to speak in any human tongue. Shere Khan was always crossing his path in the jungle, for as Akela grew older and feebler the lame tiger had come to be great friends with the younger wolves of the Pack, who followed him for scraps, a thing Akela would never have allowed if he had dared to push his authority to the proper bounds. Then Shere Khan would flatter them and wonder that such fine young hunters were content to be led by a dying wolf and a man's cub. "They tell me," Shere Khan would say, "that at Council ye dare not look him between the eyes"; and the young wolves would growl and bristle. Bagheera, who had eyes and ears everywhere, knew something of this, and once or twice he told Mowgli in so many words that Shere Khan would kill him some day; and Mowgli would laugh and answer: "I have the Pack and I have thee; and Baloo, though he is so lazy, might strike a blow or two for my sake. Why should I be afraid?" It was one very warm day that a new notion came to Bagheera--born of something that he had heard. Perhaps Ikki, the Porcupine, had told him; but he said to Mowgli when they were deep in the jungle, as the boy lay with his head on Bagheera's beautiful black skin: "Little Brother, how often have I told thee that Shere Khan is thy enemy?" "As many times as there are nuts on that palm," said Mowgli, who, naturally, could not count. "What of it? I am sleepy, Bagheera, and Shere Khan is all long tail and loud talk, like Mao, the Peacock." "But this is no time for sleeping. Baloo knows it, I know it, the Pack know it, and even the foolish, foolish deer know. Tabaqui has told thee too." "Ho! ho!" said Mowgli. "Tabaqui came to me not long ago with some rude talk that I was a naked man's cub, and not fit to dig pig-nuts; but I caught Tabaqui by the tail and swung him twice against a palm-tree to teach him better manners." "That was foolishness; for though Tabaqui is a mischief-maker, he would have told thee of something that concerned thee closely. Open those eyes, Little Brother! Shere Khan dares not kill thee in the jungle for fear of those that love thee; but remember, Akela is very old, and soon the day comes when he cannot kill his buck, and then he will be leader no more. Many of the wolves that looked thee over when thou wast brought to the Council first are old too, and the young wolves believe, as Shere Khan has taught them, that a man-cub has no place with the Pack. In a little time thou wilt be a man." "And what is a man that he should not run with his brothers?" said Mowgli. "I was born in the jungle; I have obeyed the Law of the Jungle; and there is no wolf of ours from whose paws I have not pulled a thorn. Surely they are my brothers!" Bagheera stretched himself at full length and half shut his eyes. "Little Brother," said he, "feel under my jaw." Mowgli put up his strong brown hand, and just under Bagheera's silky chin, where the giant rolling muscles were all hid by the glossy hair, he came upon a little bald spot. "There is no one in the jungle that knows that I, Bagheera, carry that mark--the mark of the collar; and yet, Little Brother, I was born among men, and it was among men that my mother died--in the cages of the King's Palace at Oodeypore. It was because of this that I paid the price for thee at the Council when thou wast a little naked cub. Yes, I too was born among men. I had never seen the jungle. They fed me behind bars from an iron pan till one night I felt that I was Bagheera, the Panther, and no man's plaything, and I broke the silly lock with one blow of my paw, and came away; and because I had learned the ways of men, I became more terrible in the jungle than Shere Khan. Is it not so?" "Yes," said Mowgli; "all the jungle fear Bagheera--all except Mowgli." "Oh, _thou_ art a man's cub," said the Black Panther, very tenderly; "and even as I returned to my jungle, so thou must go back to men at last,--to the men who are thy brothers,--if thou art not killed in the Council." "But why--but why should any wish to kill me?" said Mowgli. "Look at me," said Bagheera; and Mowgli looked at him steadily between the eyes. The big panther turned his head away in half a minute. "_That_ is why," he said, shifting his paw on the leaves. "Not even I can look thee between the eyes, and I was born among men, and I love thee, Little Brother. The others they hate thee because their eyes cannot meet thine; because thou art wise; because thou hast pulled out thorns from their feet--because thou art a man." "I did not know these things," said Mowgli, sullenly; and he frowned under his heavy black eyebrows. "What is the Law of the Jungle? Strike first and then give tongue. By thy very carelessness they know that thou art a man. But be wise. It is in my heart that when Akela misses his next kill,--and at each hunt it costs him more to pin the buck,--the Pack will turn against him and against thee. They will hold a jungle Council at the Rock, and then--and then ... I have it!" said Bagheera, leaping up. "Go thou down quickly to the men's huts in the valley, and take some of the Red Flower which they grow there, so that when the time comes thou mayest have even a stronger friend than I or Baloo or those of the Pack that love thee. Get the Red Flower." By Red Flower Bagheera meant fire, only no creature in the jungle will call fire by its proper name. Every beast lives in deadly fear of it, and invents a hundred ways of describing it. "The Red Flower?" said Mowgli. "That grows outside their huts in the twilight. I will get some." "There speaks the man's cub," said Bagheera, proudly. "Remember that it grows in little pots. Get one swiftly, and keep it by thee for time of need." "Good!" said Mowgli. "I go. But art thou sure, O my Bagheera"--he slipped his arm round the splendid neck, and looked deep into the big eyes--"art thou sure that all this is Shere Khan's doing?" "By the Broken Lock that freed me, I am sure, Little Brother." "Then, by the Bull that bought me, I will pay Shere Khan full tale for this, and it may be a little over," said Mowgli; and he bounded away. "That is a man. That is all a man," said Bagheera to himself, lying down again. "Oh, Shere Khan, never was a blacker hunting than that frog-hunt of thine ten years ago!" Mowgli was far and far through the forest, running hard, and his heart was hot in him. He came to the cave as the evening mist rose, and drew breath, and looked down the valley. The cubs were out, but Mother Wolf, at the back of the cave, knew by his breathing that something was troubling her frog. "What is it, Son?" she said. "Some bat's chatter of Shere Khan," he called back. "I hunt among the plowed fields to-night"; and he plunged downward through the bushes, to the stream at the bottom of the valley. There he checked, for he heard the yell of the Pack hunting, heard the bellow of a hunted Sambhur, and the snort as the buck turned at bay. Then there were wicked, bitter howls from the young wolves: "Akela! Akela! Let the Lone Wolf show his strength. Room for the leader of our Pack! Spring, Akela!" The Lone Wolf must have sprung and missed his hold, for Mowgli heard the snap of his teeth and then a yelp as the Sambhur knocked him over with his fore foot. He did not wait for anything more, but dashed on; and the yells grew fainter behind him as he ran into the crop-lands where the villagers lived. "Bagheera spoke truth," he panted, as he nestled down in some cattle-fodder by the window of a hut. "To-morrow is one day for Akela and for me." Then he pressed his face close to the window and watched the fire on the hearth. He saw the husbandman's wife get up and feed it in the night with black lumps; and when the morning came and the mists were all white and cold, he saw the man's child pick up a wicker pot plastered inside with earth, fill it with lumps of red-hot charcoal, put it under his blanket, and go out to tend the cows in the byre. "Is that all?" said Mowgli. "If a cub can do it, there is nothing to fear"; so he strode around the corner and met the boy, took the pot from his hand, and disappeared into the mist while the boy howled with fear. "They are very like me," said Mowgli, blowing into the pot, as he had seen the woman do. "This thing will die if I do not give it things to eat"; and he dropped twigs and dried bark on the red stuff. Half-way up the hill he met Bagheera with the morning dew shining like moonstones on his coat. "Akela has missed," said the panther. "They would have killed him last night, but they needed thee also. They were looking for thee on the hill." "I was among the plowed lands. I am ready. Look!" Mowgli held up the fire-pot. "Good! Now, I have seen men thrust a dry branch into that stuff, and presently the Red Flower blossomed at the end of it. Art thou not afraid?" "No. Why should I fear? I remember now--if it is not a dream--how, before I was a wolf, I lay beside the Red Flower, and it was warm and pleasant." All that day Mowgli sat in the cave tending his fire-pot and dipping dry branches into it to see how they looked. He found a branch that satisfied him, and in the evening when Tabaqui came to the cave and told him, rudely enough, that he was wanted at the Council Rock, he laughed till Tabaqui ran away. Then Mowgli went to the Council, still laughing. Akela the Lone Wolf lay by the side of his rock as a sign that the leadership of the Pack was open, and Shere Khan with his following of scrap-fed wolves walked to and fro openly, being flattered. Bagheera lay close to Mowgli, and the fire-pot was between Mowgli's knees. When they were all gathered together, Shere Khan began to speak--a thing he would never have dared to do when Akela was in his prime. "He has no right," whispered Bagheera. "Say so. He is a dog's son. He will be frightened." Mowgli sprang to his feet. "Free People," he cried, "does Shere Khan lead the Pack? What has a tiger to do with our leadership?" "Seeing that the leadership is yet open, and being asked to speak--" Shere Khan began. "By whom?" said Mowgli. "Are we _all_ jackals, to fawn on this cattle-butcher? The leadership of the Pack is with the Pack alone." There were yells of "Silence, thou man's cub!" "Let him speak; he has kept our law!" And at last the seniors of the Pack thundered: "Let the Dead Wolf speak!" When a leader of the Pack has missed his kill, he is called the Dead Wolf as long as he lives, which is not long, as a rule. Akela raised his old head wearily: "Free People, and ye too, jackals of Shere Khan, for twelve seasons I have led ye to and from the kill, and in all that time not one has been trapped or maimed. Now I have missed my kill. Ye know how that plot was made. Ye know how ye brought me up to an untried buck to make my weakness known. It was cleverly done. Your right is to kill me here on the Council Rock now. Therefore I ask, 'Who comes to make an end of the Lone Wolf?' For it is my right, by the Law of the Jungle, that ye come one by one." There was a long hush, for no single wolf cared to fight Akela to the death. Then Shere Khan roared: "Bah! What have we to do with this toothless fool? He is doomed to die! It is the man-cub who has lived too long. Free People, he was my meat from the first. Give him to me. I am weary of this man-wolf folly. He has troubled the jungle for ten seasons. Give me the man-cub, or I will hunt here always, and not give you one bone! He is a man--a man's child, and from the marrow of my bones I hate him!" Then more than half the Pack yelled: "A man--a man! What has a man to do with us? Let him go to his own place." "And turn all the people of the villages against us?" snarled Shere Khan. "No; give him to me. He is a man, and none of us can look him between the eyes." Akela lifted his head again, and said: "He has eaten our food; he has slept with us; he has driven game for us; he has broken no word of the Law of the Jungle." "Also, I paid for him with a bull when he was accepted. The worth of a bull is little, but Bagheera's honor is something that he will perhaps fight for," said Bagheera in his gentlest voice. "A bull paid ten years ago!" the Pack snarled. "What do we care for bones ten years old?" "Or for a pledge?" said Bagheera, his white teeth bared under his lip. "Well are ye called the Free People!" "No man's cub can run with the people of the jungle!" roared Shere Khan. "Give him to me." "He is our brother in all but blood," Akela went on; "and ye would kill him here. In truth, I have lived too long. Some of ye are eaters of cattle, and of others I have heard that, under Shere Khan's teaching, ye go by dark night and snatch children from the villager's doorstep. Therefore I know ye to be cowards, and it is to cowards I speak. It is certain that I must die, and my life is of no worth, or I would offer that in the man-cub's place. But for the sake of the Honor of the Pack,--a little matter that, by being without a leader, ye have forgotten,--I promise that if ye let the man-cub go to his own place, I will not, when my time comes to die, bare one tooth against ye. I will die without fighting. That will at least save the Pack three lives. More I cannot do; but, if ye will, I can save ye the shame that comes of killing a brother against whom there is no fault--a brother spoken for and bought into the Pack according to the Law of the Jungle." "He is a man--a man--a man!" snarled the Pack; and most of the wolves began to gather round Shere Khan, whose tail was beginning to switch. "Now the business is in thy hands," said Bagheera to Mowgli. "_We_ can do no more except fight." Mowgli stood upright--the fire-pot in his hands. Then he stretched out his arms, and yawned in the face of the Council; but he was furious with rage and sorrow, for, wolf-like, the wolves had never told him how they hated him. "Listen, you!" he cried. "There is no need for this dog's jabber. Ye have told me so often to-night that I am a man (though indeed I would have been a wolf with you to my life's end) that I feel your words are true. So I do not call ye my brothers any more, but _sag_ [dogs], as a man should. What ye will do, and what ye will not do, is not yours to say. That matter is with _me_; and that we may see the matter more plainly, I, the man, have brought here a little of the Red Flower which ye, dogs, fear." He flung the fire-pot on the ground, and some of the red coals lit a tuft of dried moss that flared up as all the Council drew back in terror before the leaping flames. Mowgli thrust his dead branch into the fire till the twigs lit and crackled, and whirled it above his head among the cowering wolves. "Thou art the master," said Bagheera, in an undertone. "Save Akela from the death. He was ever thy friend." Akela, the grim old wolf who had never asked for mercy in his life, gave one piteous look at Mowgli as the boy stood all naked, his long black hair tossing over his shoulders in the light of the blazing branch that made the shadows jump and quiver. "Good!" said Mowgli, staring around slowly, and thrusting out his lower lip. "I see that ye are dogs. I go from you to my own people--if they be my own people. The jungle is shut to me, and I must forget your talk and your companionship; but I will be more merciful than ye are. Because I was all but your brother in blood, I promise that when I am a man among men I will not betray ye to men as ye have betrayed me." He kicked the fire with his foot, and the sparks flew up. "There shall be no war between any of us and the Pack. But here is a debt to pay before I go." He strode forward to where Shere Khan sat blinking stupidly at the flames, and caught him by the tuft on his chin. Bagheera followed close, in case of accidents. "Up, dog!" Mowgli cried. "Up, when a man speaks, or I will set that coat ablaze!" Shere Khan's ears lay flat back on his head, and he shut his eyes, for the blazing branch was very near. "This cattle-killer said he would kill me in the Council because he had not killed me when I was a cub. Thus and thus, then, do we beat dogs when we are men! Stir a whisker, Lungri, and I ram the Red Flower down thy gullet!" He beat Shere Khan over the head with the branch, and the tiger whimpered and whined in an agony of fear. "Pah! Singed jungle-cat--go now! But remember when next I come to the Council Rock, as a man should come, it will be with Shere Khan's hide on my head. For the rest, Akela goes free to live as he pleases. Ye will _not_ kill him, because that is not my will. Nor do I think that ye will sit here any longer, lolling out your tongues as though ye were somebodies, instead of dogs whom I drive out--thus! Go!" The fire was burning furiously at the end of the branch, and Mowgli struck right and left round the circle, and the wolves ran howling with the sparks burning their fur. At last there were only Akela, Bagheera, and perhaps ten wolves that had taken Mowgli's part. Then something began to hurt Mowgli inside him, as he had never been hurt in his life before, and he caught his breath and sobbed, and the tears ran down his face. "What is it? What is it?" he said. "I do not wish to leave the jungle, and I do not know what this is. Am I dying, Bagheera?" "No, Little Brother. Those are only tears such as men use," said Bagheera. "Now I know thou art a man, and a man's cub no longer. The jungle is shut indeed to thee henceforward. Let them fall, Mowgli; they are only tears." So Mowgli sat and cried as though his heart would break; and he had never cried in all his life before. "Now," he said, "I will go to men. But first I must say farewell to my mother"; and he went to the cave where she lived with Father Wolf, and he cried on her coat, while the four cubs howled miserably. "Ye will not forget me?" said Mowgli. "Never while we can follow a trail," said the cubs. "Come to the foot of the hill when thou art a man, and we will talk to thee; and we will come into the crop-lands to play with thee by night." "Come soon!" said Father Wolf. "Oh, wise little Frog, come again soon; for we be old, thy mother and I." "Come soon," said Mother Wolf, "little naked son of mine; for, listen, child of man, I loved thee more than ever I loved my cubs." "I will surely come," said Mowgli; "and when I come it will be to lay out Shere Khan's hide upon the Council Rock. Do not forget me! Tell them in the jungle never to forget me!" The dawn was beginning to break when Mowgli went down the hillside alone to the crops to meet those mysterious things that are called men. HUNTING-SONG OF THE SEEONEE PACK As the dawn was breaking the Sambhur belled Once, twice, and again! And a doe leaped up--and a doe leaped up From the pond in the wood where the wild deer sup. This I, scouting alone, beheld, Once, twice, and again! As the dawn was breaking the Sambhur belled Once, twice, and again! And a wolf stole back--and a wolf stole back To carry the word to the waiting Pack; And we sought and we found and we bayed on his track Once, twice, and again! As the dawn was breaking the Wolf-pack yelled Once, twice, and again! Feet in the jungle that leave no mark! Eyes that can see in the dark--the dark! Tongue--give tongue to it! Hark! O Hark! Once, twice, and again! KAA'S HUNTING His spots are the joy of the Leopard: his horns are the Buffalo's pride-- Be clean, for the strength of the hunter is known by the gloss of his hide. If ye find that the Bullock can toss you, or the heavy-browed Sambhur can gore; Ye need not stop work to inform us: we knew it ten seasons before. Oppress not the cubs of the stranger, but hail them as Sister and Brother, For though they are little and fubsy, it may be the Bear is their mother. "There is none like to me!" says the Cub in the pride of his earliest kill; But the Jungle is large and the Cub he is small. Let him think and be still. _Maxims of Baloo._ [Illustration] KAA'S HUNTING ALL that is told here happened some time before Mowgli was turned out of the Seeonee wolf-pack. It was in the days when Baloo was teaching him the Law of the Jungle. The big, serious, old brown bear was delighted to have so quick a pupil, for the young wolves will only learn as much of the Law of the Jungle as applies to their own pack and tribe, and run away as soon as they can repeat the Hunting Verse: "Feet that make no noise; eyes that can see in the dark; ears that can hear the winds in their lairs, and sharp white teeth--all these things are the marks of our brothers except Tabaqui and the Hyena, whom we hate." But Mowgli, as a man-cub, had to learn a great deal more than this. Sometimes Bagheera, the Black Panther, would come lounging through the jungle to see how his pet was getting on, and would purr with his head against a tree while Mowgli recited the day's lesson to Baloo. The boy could climb almost as well as he could swim, and swim almost as well as he could run; so Baloo, the Teacher of the Law, taught him the Wood and Water laws: how to tell a rotten branch from a sound one; how to speak politely to the wild bees when he came upon a hive of them fifty feet aboveground; what to say to Mang, the Bat, when he disturbed him in the branches at midday; and how to warn the water-snakes in the pools before he splashed down among them. None of the Jungle People like being disturbed, and all are very ready to fly at an intruder. Then, too, Mowgli was taught the Strangers' Hunting Call, which must be repeated aloud till it is answered, whenever one of the Jungle People hunts outside his own grounds. It means, translated: "Give me leave to hunt here because I am hungry"; and the answer is: "Hunt, then, for food, but not for pleasure." All this will show you how much Mowgli had to learn by heart, and he grew very tired of repeating the same thing a hundred times; but, as Baloo said to Bagheera one day when Mowgli had been cuffed and had run off in a temper: "A man's cub is a man's cub, and he must learn _all_ the Law of the Jungle." "But think how small he is," said the Black Panther, who would have spoiled Mowgli if he had had his own way. "How can his little head carry all thy long talk?" "Is there anything in the jungle too little to be killed? No. That is why I teach him these things, and that is why I hit him, very softly, when he forgets." "Softly! What dost thou know of softness, old Iron-feet?" Bagheera grunted. "His face is all bruised to-day by thy--softness. Ugh!" "Better he should be bruised from head to foot by me who love him than that he should come to harm through ignorance," Baloo answered, very earnestly. "I am now teaching him the Master Words of the Jungle that shall protect him with the Birds and the Snake People, and all that hunt on four feet, except his own pack. He can now claim protection, if he will only remember the Words, from all in the jungle. Is not that worth a little beating?" "Well, look to it then that thou dost not kill the man-cub. He is no tree-trunk to sharpen thy blunt claws upon. But what are those Master Words? I am more likely to give help than to ask it"--Bagheera stretched out one paw and admired the steel-blue ripping-chisel talons at the end of it--"Still I should like to know." "I will call Mowgli and he shall say them--if he will. Come, Little Brother!" "My head is ringing like a bee-tree," said a sullen voice over their heads, and Mowgli slid down a tree-trunk, very angry and indignant, adding, as he reached the ground: "I come for Bagheera and not for _thee_, fat old Baloo!" "That is all one to me," said Baloo, though he was hurt and grieved. "Tell Bagheera, then, the Master Words of the Jungle that I have taught thee this day." "Master Words for which people?" said Mowgli, delighted to show off. "The jungle has many tongues. _I_ know them all." "A little thou knowest, but not much. See, O Bagheera, they never thank their teacher! Not one small wolfling has come back to thank old Baloo for his teachings. Say the Word for the Hunting People, then,--great scholar!" "We be of one blood, ye and I," said Mowgli, giving the words the Bear accent which all the Hunting People of the Jungle use. "Good! Now for the Birds." Mowgli repeated, with the Kite's whistle at the end of the sentence. "Now for the Snake People," said Bagheera. The answer was a perfectly indescribable hiss, and Mowgli kicked up his feet behind, clapped his hands together to applaud himself, and jumped on Bagheera's back, where he sat sideways, drumming with his heels on the glossy skin and making the worst faces that he could think of at Baloo. "There--there! That was worth a little bruise," said the Brown Bear, tenderly. "Some day thou wilt remember me." Then he turned aside to tell Bagheera how he had begged the Master Words from Hathi, the Wild Elephant, who knows all about these things, and how Hathi had taken Mowgli down to a pool to get the Snake Word from a water-snake, because Baloo could not pronounce it, and how Mowgli was now reasonably safe against all accidents in the jungle, because neither snake, bird, nor beast would hurt him. "No one then is to be feared," Baloo wound up, patting his big furry stomach with pride. "Except his own tribe," said Bagheera, under his breath; and then aloud to Mowgli: "Have a care for my ribs, Little Brother! What is all this dancing up and down?" Mowgli had been trying to make himself heard by pulling at Bagheera's shoulder-fur and kicking hard. When the two listened to him he was shouting at the top of his voice: "And _so_ I shall have a tribe of my own, and lead them through the branches all day long." "What is this new folly, little dreamer of dreams?" said Bagheera. "Yes, and throw branches and dirt at old Baloo," Mowgli went on. "They have promised me this, ah!" "Whoof!" Baloo's big paw scooped Mowgli off Bagheera's back, and as the boy lay between the big fore paws he could see the bear was angry. "Mowgli," said Baloo, "thou hast been talking with the Bandar-log--the Monkey People." Mowgli looked at Bagheera to see if the panther was angry too, and Bagheera's eyes were as hard as jade-stones. "Thou hast been with the Monkey People--the gray apes--the people without a Law--the eaters of everything. That is great shame." "When Baloo hurt my head," said Mowgli (he was still down on his back), "I went away, and the gray apes came down from the trees and had pity on me. No one else cared." He snuffled a little. "The pity of the Monkey People!" Baloo snorted. "The stillness of the mountain stream! The cool of the summer sun! And then, man-cub?" "And then--and then they gave me nuts and pleasant things to eat, and they--they carried me in their arms up to the top of the trees and said I was their blood-brother, except that I had no tail, and should be their leader some day." "They have _no_ leader," said Bagheera. "They lie. They have always lied." "They were very kind, and bade me come again. Why have I never been taken among the Monkey People? They stand on their feet as I do. They do not hit me with hard paws. They play all day. Let me get up! Bad Baloo, let me up! I will go play with them again." "Listen, man-cub," said the bear, and his voice rumbled like thunder on a hot night. "I have taught thee all the Law of the Jungle for all the Peoples of the Jungle--except the Monkey Folk who live in the trees. They have no Law. They are outcastes. They have no speech of their own, but use the stolen words which they overhear when they listen and peep and wait up above in the branches. Their way is not our way. They are without leaders. They have no remembrance. They boast and chatter and pretend that they are a great people about to do great affairs in the jungle, but the falling of a nut turns their minds to laughter, and all is forgotten. We of the jungle have no dealings with them. We do not drink where the monkeys drink; we do not go where the monkeys go; we do not hunt where they hunt; we do not die where they die. Hast thou ever heard me speak of the Bandar-log till to-day?" "No," said Mowgli in a whisper, for the forest was very still now that Baloo had finished. "The Jungle People put them out of their mouths and out of their minds. They are very many, evil, dirty, shameless, and they desire, if they have any fixed desire, to be noticed by the Jungle People. But we do _not_ notice them even when they throw nuts and filth on our heads." He had hardly spoken when a shower of nuts and twigs spattered down through the branches; and they could hear coughings and howlings and angry jumpings high up in the air among the thin branches. "The Monkey People are forbidden," said Baloo, "forbidden to the Jungle People. Remember." "Forbidden," said Bagheera; "but I still think Baloo should have warned thee against them." "I--I? How was I to guess he would play with such dirt. The Monkey People! Faugh!" A fresh shower came down on their heads, and the two trotted away, taking Mowgli with them. What Baloo had said about the monkeys was perfectly true. They belonged to the tree-tops, and as beasts very seldom look up, there was no occasion for the monkeys and the Jungle People to cross one another's path. But whenever they found a sick wolf, or a wounded tiger or bear, the monkeys would torment him, and would throw sticks and nuts at any beast for fun and in the hope of being noticed. Then they would howl and shriek senseless songs, and invite the Jungle People to climb up their trees and fight them, or would start furious battles over nothing among themselves, and leave the dead monkeys where the Jungle People could see them. They were always just going to have a leader and laws and customs of their own, but they never did, because their memories would not hold over from day to day, and so they settled things by making up a saying: "What the Bandar-log think now the Jungle will think later"; and that comforted them a great deal. None of the beasts could reach them, but on the other hand none of the beasts would notice them, and that was why they were so pleased when Mowgli came to play with them, and when they heard how angry Baloo was. They never meant to do any more,--the Bandar-log never mean anything at all,--but one of them invented what seemed to him a brilliant idea, and he told all the others that Mowgli would be a useful person to keep in the tribe, because he could weave sticks together for protection from the wind; so, if they caught him, they could make him teach them. Of course Mowgli, as a wood-cutter's child, inherited all sorts of instincts, and used to make little play-huts of fallen branches without thinking how he came to do it. The Monkey People, watching in the trees, considered these huts most wonderful. This time, they said, they were really going to have a leader and become the wisest people in the jungle--so wise that every one else would notice and envy them. Therefore they followed Baloo and Bagheera and Mowgli through the jungle very quietly till it was time for the midday nap, and Mowgli, who was very much ashamed of himself, slept between the panther and the bear, resolving to have no more to do with the Monkey People. The next thing he remembered was feeling hands on his legs and arms,--hard, strong little hands,--and then a swash of branches in his face; and then he was staring down through the swaying boughs as Baloo woke the jungle with his deep cries and Bagheera bounded up the trunk with every tooth bared. The Bandar-log howled with triumph, and scuffled away to the upper branches where Bagheera dared not follow, shouting: "He has noticed us! Bagheera has noticed us! All the Jungle People admire us for our skill and our cunning!" Then they began their flight; and the flight of the Monkey People through tree-land is one of the things nobody can describe. They have their regular roads and cross-roads, uphills and downhills, all laid out from fifty to seventy or a hundred feet aboveground, and by these they can travel even at night if necessary. Two of the strongest monkeys caught Mowgli under the arms and swung off with him through the tree-tops, twenty feet at a bound. Had they been alone they could have gone twice as fast, but the boy's weight held them back. Sick and giddy as Mowgli was he could not help enjoying the wild rush, though the glimpses of earth far down below frightened him, and the terrible check and jerk at the end of the swing over nothing but empty air brought his heart between his teeth. His escort would rush him up a tree till he felt the weak topmost branches crackle and bend under them, and, then, with a cough and a whoop, would fling themselves into the air outward and downward, and bring up hanging by their hands or their feet to the lower limbs of the next tree. Sometimes he could see for miles and miles over the still green jungle, as a man on the top of a mast can see for miles across the sea, and then the branches and leaves would lash him across the face, and he and his two guards would be almost down to earth again. So bounding and crashing and whooping and yelling, the whole tribe of Bandar-log swept along the tree-roads with Mowgli their prisoner. For a time he was afraid of being dropped; then he grew angry, but he knew better than to struggle; and then he began to think. The first thing was to send back word to Baloo and Bagheera, for, at the pace the monkeys were going, he knew his friends would be left far behind. It was useless to look down, for he could see only the top sides of the branches, so he stared upward and saw, far away in the blue, Rann, the Kite, balancing and wheeling as he kept watch over the jungle waiting for things to die. Rann noticed that the monkeys were carrying something, and dropped a few hundred yards to find out whether their load was good to eat. He whistled with surprise when he saw Mowgli being dragged up to a tree-top, and heard him give the Kite call for "We be of one blood, thou and I." The waves of the branches closed over the boy, but Rann balanced away to the next tree in time to see the little brown face come up again. "Mark my trail!" Mowgli shouted. "Tell Baloo of the Seeonee Pack, and Bagheera of the Council Rock." "In whose name, Brother?" Rann had never seen Mowgli before, though of course he had heard of him. "Mowgli, the Frog. Man-cub they call me! Mark my tra--il!" The last words were shrieked as he was being swung through the air, but Rann nodded, and rose up till he looked no bigger than a speck of dust, and there he hung, watching with his telescope eyes the swaying of the tree-tops as Mowgli's escort whirled along. "They never go far," he said, with a chuckle. "They never do what they set out to do. Always pecking at new things are the Bandar-log. This time, if I have any eyesight, they have pecked down trouble for themselves, for Baloo is no fledgling and Bagheera can, as I know, kill more than goats." Then he rocked on his wings, his feet gathered up under him, and waited. Meanwhile, Baloo and Bagheera were furious with rage and grief. Bagheera climbed as he had never climbed before, but the branches broke beneath his weight, and he slipped down, his claws full of bark. "Why didst thou not warn the man-cub!" he roared to poor Baloo, who had set off at a clumsy trot in the hope of overtaking the monkeys. "What was the use of half slaying him with blows if thou didst not warn him?" "Haste! O haste! We--we may catch them yet!" Baloo panted. "At that speed! It would not tire a wounded cow. Teacher of the Law, cub-beater--a mile of that rolling to and fro would burst thee open. Sit still and think! Make a plan. This is no time for chasing. They may drop him if we follow too close." "_Arrula! Whoo!_ They may have dropped him already, being tired of carrying him. Who can trust the Bandar-log? Put dead bats on my head! Give me black bones to eat! Roll me into the hives of the wild bees that I may be stung to death, and bury me with the hyena; for I am the most miserable of bears! _Arulala! Wahooa!_ O Mowgli, Mowgli! Why did I not warn thee against the Monkey Folk instead of breaking thy head? Now perhaps I may have knocked the day's lesson out of his mind, and he will be alone in the jungle without the Master Words!" Baloo clasped his paws over his ears and rolled to and fro, moaning. "At least he gave me all the Words correctly a little time ago," said Bagheera, impatiently. "Baloo, thou hast neither memory nor respect. What would the jungle think if I, the Black Panther, curled myself up like Ikki, the Porcupine, and howled?" "What do I care what the jungle thinks? He may be dead by now." "Unless and until they drop him from the branches in sport, or kill him out of idleness, I have no fear for the man-cub. He is wise and well-taught, and, above all, he has the eyes that make the Jungle People afraid. But (and it is a great evil) he is in the power of the Bandar-log, and they, because they live in trees, have no fear of any of our people." Bagheera licked his one fore paw thoughtfully. "Fool that I am! Oh fat, brown, root-digging fool that I am!" said Baloo, uncoiling himself with a jerk. "It is true what Hathi, the Wild Elephant, says: '_To each his own fear_'; and they, the Bandar-log, fear Kaa, the Rock Snake. He can climb as well as they can. He steals the young monkeys in the night. The mere whisper of his name makes their wicked tails cold. Let us go to Kaa." "What will he do for us? He is not of our tribe, being footless and with most evil eyes," said Bagheera. "He is very old and very cunning. Above all, he is always hungry," said Baloo, hopefully. "Promise him many goats." "He sleeps for a full month after he has once eaten. He may be asleep now, and even were he awake, what if he would rather kill his own goats?" Bagheera, who did not know much about Kaa, was naturally suspicious. "Then in that case, thou and I together, old hunter, may make him see reason." Here Baloo rubbed his faded brown shoulder against the panther, and they went off to look for Kaa, the Rock Python. They found him stretched out on a warm ledge in the afternoon sun, admiring his beautiful new coat, for he had been in retirement for the last ten days changing his skin, and now he was very splendid--darting his big blunt-nosed head along the ground, and twisting the thirty feet of his body into fantastic knots and curves, and licking his lips as he thought of his dinner to come. "He has not eaten," said Baloo, with a grunt of relief, as soon as he saw the beautifully mottled brown and yellow jacket. "Be careful, Bagheera! He is always a little blind after he has changed his skin, and very quick to strike." Kaa was not a poison snake--in fact he rather despised the Poison Snakes for cowards; but his strength lay in his hug, and when he had once lapped his huge coils round anybody there was no more to be said. "Good hunting!" cried Baloo, sitting up on his haunches. Like all snakes of his breed Kaa was rather deaf, and did not hear the call at first. Then he curled up ready for any accident, his head lowered. "Good hunting for us all," he answered. "Oho, Baloo, what dost thou do here? Good hunting, Bagheera. One of us at least needs food. Is there any news of game afoot? A doe now, or even a young buck? I am as empty as a dried well." "We are hunting," said Baloo, carelessly. He knew that you must not hurry Kaa. He is too big. "Give me permission to come with you," said Kaa. "A blow more or less is nothing to thee, Bagheera or Baloo, but I--I have to wait and wait for days in a wood path and climb half a night on the mere chance of a young ape. _Pss naw!_ The branches are not what they were when I was young. Rotten twigs and dry boughs are they all." "Maybe thy great weight has something to do with the matter," said Baloo. "I am a fair length--a fair length," said Kaa, with a little pride. "But for all that, it is the fault of this new-grown timber. I came very near to falling on my last hunt,--very near indeed,--and the noise of my slipping, for my tail was not tight wrapped round the tree, waked the Bandar-log, and they called me most evil names." "'Footless, yellow earthworm,'" said Bagheera under his whiskers, as though he were trying to remember something. "_Sssss!_ Have they ever called me _that_?" said Kaa. "Something of that kind it was that they shouted to us last moon, but we never noticed them. They will say anything--even that thou hast lost all thy teeth, and dare not face anything bigger than a kid, because (they are indeed shameless, these Bandar-log)--because thou art afraid of the he-goats' horns," Bagheera went on sweetly. Now a snake, especially a wary old python like Kaa, very seldom shows that he is angry; but Baloo and Bagheera could see the big swallowing muscles on either side of Kaa's throat ripple and bulge. "The Bandar-log have shifted their grounds," he said, quietly. "When I came up into the sun today I heard them whooping among the tree-tops." "It--it is the Bandar-log that we follow now," said Baloo; but the words stuck in his throat, for this was the first time in his memory that one of the Jungle People had owned to being interested in the doings of the monkeys. "Beyond doubt, then, it is no small thing that takes two such hunters--leaders in their own jungle, I am certain--on the trail of the Bandar-log," Kaa replied, courteously, as he swelled with curiosity. "Indeed," Baloo began, "I am no more than the old, and sometimes very foolish, Teacher of the Law to the Seeonee wolf-cubs, and Bagheera here--" "Is Bagheera," said the Black Panther, and his jaws shut with a snap, for he did not believe in being humble. "The trouble is this, Kaa. Those nut-stealers and pickers of palm-leaves have stolen away our man-cub, of whom thou hast perhaps heard." "I heard some news from Ikki (his quills make him presumptuous) of a man-thing that was entered into a wolf-pack, but I did not believe. Ikki is full of stories half heard and very badly told." "But it is true. He is such a man-cub as never was," said Baloo. "The best and wisest and boldest of man-cubs. My own pupil, who shall make the name of Baloo famous through all the jungles; and besides, I--we--love him, Kaa." "_Ts! Ts!_" said Kaa, shaking his head to and fro. "I also have known what love is. There are tales I could tell that--" "That need a clear night when we are all well fed to praise properly," said Bagheera, quickly. "Our man-cub is in the hands of the Bandar-log now, and we know that of all the Jungle People they fear Kaa alone." "They fear me alone. They have good reason," said Kaa. "Chattering, foolish, vain--vain, foolish, and chattering--are the monkeys. But a man-thing in their hands is in no good luck. They grow tired of the nuts they pick, and throw them down. They carry a branch half a day, meaning to do great things with it, and then they snap it in two. That manling is not to be envied. They called me also--'yellow fish,' was it not?" "Worm--worm--earthworm," said Bagheera; "as well as other things which I cannot now say for shame." "We must remind them to speak well of their master. _Aaa-sssh!_ We must help their wandering memories. Now, whither went they with thy cub?" "The jungle alone knows. Toward the sunset, I believe," said Baloo. "We had thought that thou wouldst know, Kaa." "I? How? I take them when they come in my way, but I do not hunt the Bandar-log--or frogs--or green scum on a water-hole, for that matter." "Up, up! Up, up! _Hillo! Illo! Illo!_ Look up, Baloo of the Seeonee Wolf Pack!" Baloo looked up to see where the voice came from, and there was Rann, the Kite, sweeping down with the sun shining on the upturned flanges of his wings. It was near Rann's bedtime, but he had ranged all over the jungle looking for the bear, and missed him in the thick foliage. "What is it?" said Baloo. "I have seen Mowgli among the Bandar-log. He bade me tell you. I watched. The Bandar-log have taken him beyond the river to the Monkey City--to the Cold Lairs. They may stay there for a night, or ten nights, or an hour. I have told the bats to watch through the dark time. That is my message. Good hunting, all you below!" "Full gorge and a deep sleep to you, Rann!" cried Bagheera. "I will remember thee in my next kill, and put aside the head for thee alone, O best of kites!" "It is nothing. It is nothing. The boy held the Master Word. I could have done no less," and Rann circled up again to his roost. "He has not forgotten to use his tongue," said Baloo, with a chuckle of pride. "To think of one so young remembering the Master Word for the birds while he was being pulled across trees!" "It was most firmly driven into him," said Bagheera. "But I am proud of him, and now we must go to the Cold Lairs." They all knew where that place was, but few of the Jungle People ever went there, because what they called the Cold Lairs was an old deserted city, lost and buried in the jungle, and beasts seldom use a place that men have once used. The wild boar will, but the hunting-tribes do not. Besides, the monkeys lived there as much as they could be said to live anywhere, and no self-respecting animal would come within eye-shot of it except in times of drouth, when the half-ruined tanks and reservoirs held a little water. "It is half a night's journey--at full speed," said Bagheera. Baloo looked very serious. "I will go as fast as I can," he said, anxiously. "We dare not wait for thee. Follow, Baloo. We must go on the quick-foot--Kaa and I." "Feet or no feet, I can keep abreast of all thy four," said Kaa, shortly. Baloo made one effort to hurry, but had to sit down panting, and so they left him to come on later, while Bagheera hurried forward, at the rocking panther-canter. Kaa said nothing, but, strive as Bagheera might, the huge Rock Python held level with him. When they came to a hill-stream, Bagheera gained, because he bounded across while Kaa swam, his head and two feet of his neck clearing the water, but on level ground Kaa made up the distance. "By the Broken Lock that freed me," said Bagheera, when twilight had fallen, "thou art no slow-goer." "I am hungry," said Kaa. "Besides, they called me speckled frog." "Worm--earthworm, and yellow to boot." "All one. Let us go on," and Kaa seemed to pour himself along the ground, finding the shortest road with his steady eyes, and keeping to it. In the Cold Lairs the Monkey People were not thinking of Mowgli's friends at all. They had brought the boy to the Lost City, and were very pleased with themselves for the time. Mowgli had never seen an Indian city before, and though this was almost a heap of ruins it seemed very wonderful and splendid. Some king had built it long ago on a little hill. You could still trace the stone causeways that led up to the ruined gates where the last splinters of wood hung to the worn, rusted hinges. Trees had grown into and out of the walls; the battlements were tumbled down and decayed, and wild creepers hung out of the windows of the towers on the walls in bushy hanging clumps. A great roofless palace crowned the hill, and the marble of the courtyards and the fountains was split and stained with red and green, and the very cobblestones in the courtyard where the king's elephants used to live had been thrust up and apart by grasses and young trees. From the palace you could see the rows and rows of roofless houses that made up the city, looking like empty honeycombs filled with blackness; the shapeless block of stone that had been an idol in the square where four roads met; the pits and dimples at street corners where the public wells once stood, and the shattered domes of temples with wild figs sprouting on their sides. The monkeys called the place their city, and pretended to despise the Jungle People because they lived in the forest. And yet they never knew what the buildings were made for nor how to use them. They would sit in circles on the hall of the king's council-chamber, and scratch for fleas and pretend to be men; or they would run in and out of the roofless houses and collect pieces of plaster and old bricks in a corner, and forget where they had hidden them, and fight and cry in scuffling crowds, and then break off to play up and down the terraces of the king's garden, where they would shake the rose-trees and the oranges in sport to see the fruit and flowers fall. They explored all the passages and dark tunnels in the palace and the hundreds of little dark rooms; but they never remembered what they had seen and what they had not, and so drifted about in ones and twos or crowds, telling one another that they were doing as men did. They drank at the tanks and made the water all muddy, and then they fought over it, and then they would all rush together in mobs and shout: "There are none in the jungle so wise and good and clever and strong and gentle as the Bandar-log." Then all would begin again till they grew tired of the city and went back to the tree-tops, hoping the Jungle People would notice them. Mowgli, who had been trained under the Law of the Jungle, did not like or understand this kind of life. The monkeys dragged him into the Cold Lairs late in the afternoon, and instead of going to sleep, as Mowgli would have done after a long journey, they joined hands and danced about and sang their foolish songs. One of the monkeys made a speech, and told his companions that Mowgli's capture marked a new thing in the history of the Bandar-log, for Mowgli was going to show them how to weave sticks and canes together as a protection against rain and cold. Mowgli picked up some creepers and began to work them in and out, and the monkeys tried to imitate; but in a very few minutes they lost interest and began to pull their friends' tails or jump up and down on all fours, coughing. "I want to eat," said Mowgli. "I am a stranger in this part of the jungle. Bring me food, or give me leave to hunt here." Twenty or thirty monkeys bounded away to bring him nuts and wild pawpaws; but they fell to fighting on the road, and it was too much trouble to go back with what was left of the fruit. Mowgli was sore and angry as well as hungry, and he roamed through the empty city giving the Strangers' Hunting Call from time to time, but no one answered him, and Mowgli felt that he had reached a very bad place indeed. "All that Baloo has said about the Bandar-log is true," he thought to himself. "They have no Law, no Hunting Call, and no leaders--nothing but foolish words and little picking, thievish hands. So if I am starved or killed here, it will be all my own fault. But I must try to return to my own jungle. Baloo will surely beat me, but that is better than chasing silly rose-leaves with the Bandar-log." But no sooner had he walked to the city wall than the monkeys pulled him back, telling him that he did not know how happy he was, and pinching him to make him grateful. He set his teeth and said nothing, but went with the shouting monkeys to a terrace above the red sandstone reservoirs that were half full of rain-water. There was a ruined summer-house of white marble in the center of the terrace, built for queens dead a hundred years ago. The domed roof had half fallen in and blocked up the underground passage from the palace by which the queens used to enter; but the walls were made of screens of marble tracery--beautiful, milk-white fretwork, set with agates and cornelians and jasper and lapis lazuli, and as the moon came up behind the hill it shone through the openwork, casting shadows on the ground like black-velvet embroidery. Sore, sleepy, and hungry as he was, Mowgli could not help laughing when the Bandar-log began, twenty at a time, to tell him how great and wise and strong and gentle they were, and how foolish he was to wish to leave them. "We are great. We are free. We are wonderful. We are the most wonderful people in all the jungle! We all say so, and so it must be true," they shouted. "Now as you are a new listener and can carry our words back to the Jungle People so that they may notice us in future, we will tell you all about our most excellent selves." Mowgli made no objection, and the monkeys gathered by hundreds and hundreds on the terrace to listen to their own speakers singing the praises of the Bandar-log, and whenever a speaker stopped for want of breath they would all shout together: "This is true; we all say so." Mowgli nodded and blinked, and said "Yes" when they asked him a question, and his head spun with the noise. "Tabaqui, the Jackal, must have bitten all these people," he said to himself, "and now they have the madness. Certainly this is _dewance_--the madness. Do they never go to sleep? Now there is a cloud coming to cover that moon. If it were only a big enough cloud I might try to run away in the darkness. But I am tired." That same cloud was being watched by two good friends in the ruined ditch below the city wall, for Bagheera and Kaa, knowing well how dangerous the Monkey People were in large numbers, did not wish to run any risks. The monkeys never fight unless they are a hundred to one, and few in the jungle care for those odds. "I will go to the west wall," Kaa whispered, "and come down swiftly with the slope of the ground in my favor. They will not throw themselves upon _my_ back in their hundreds, but--" "I know it," said Bagheera. "Would that Baloo were here; but we must do what we can. When that cloud covers the moon I shall go to the terrace. They hold some sort of council there over the boy." "Good hunting," said Kaa, grimly, and glided away to the west wall. That happened to be the least ruined of any, and the big snake was delayed a while before he could find a way up the stones. The cloud hid the moon, and as Mowgli wondered what would come next he heard Bagheera's light feet on the terrace. The Black Panther had raced up the slope almost without a sound, and was striking--he knew better than to waste time in biting--right and left among the monkeys, who were seated round Mowgli in circles fifty and sixty deep. There was a howl of fright and rage, and then as Bagheera tripped on the rolling, kicking bodies beneath him, a monkey shouted: "There is only one here! Kill him! Kill!" A scuffling mass of monkeys, biting, scratching, tearing, and pulling, closed over Bagheera, while five or six laid hold of Mowgli, dragged him up the wall of the summer-house, and pushed him through the hole of the broken dome. A man-trained boy would have been badly bruised, for the fall was a good ten feet, but Mowgli fell as Baloo had taught him to fall, and landed light. "Stay there," shouted the monkeys, "till we have killed thy friend. Later we will play with thee, if the Poison People leave thee alive." "We be of one blood, ye and I," said Mowgli, quickly giving the Snake's Call. He could hear rustling and hissing in the rubbish all round him, and gave the Call a second time to make sure. "Down hoods all," said half a dozen low voices. Every old ruin in India becomes sooner or later a dwelling-place of snakes, and the old summer-house was alive with cobras. "Stand still, Little Brother, lest thy feet do us harm." Mowgli stood as quietly as he could, peering through the openwork and listening to the furious din of the fight round the Black Panther--the yells and chatterings and scufflings, and Bagheera's deep, hoarse cough as he backed and bucked and twisted and plunged under the heaps of his enemies. For the first time since he was born, Bagheera was fighting for his life. "Baloo must be at hand; Bagheera would not have come alone," Mowgli thought; and then he called aloud: "To the tank, Bagheera! Roll to the water-tanks! Roll and plunge! Get to the water!" Bagheera heard, and the cry that told him Mowgli was safe gave him new courage. He worked his way desperately, inch by inch, straight for the reservoirs, hitting in silence. Then from the ruined wall nearest the jungle rose up the rumbling war-shout of Baloo. The old bear had done his best, but he could not come before. "Bagheera," he shouted, "I am here! I climb! I haste! _Ahuwora!_ The stones slip under my feet! Wait my coming, O most infamous Bandar log!" He panted up the terrace only to disappear to the head in a wave of monkeys, but he threw himself squarely on his haunches, and spreading out his fore paws, hugged as many as he could hold, and then began to hit with a regular _bat-bat-bat_, like the flipping strokes of a paddle-wheel. A crash and a splash told Mowgli that Bagheera had fought his way to the tank, where the monkeys could not follow. The panther lay gasping for breath, his head just out of water, while the monkeys stood three deep on the red stone steps, dancing up and down with rage, ready to spring upon him from all sides if he came out to help Baloo. It was then that Bagheera lifted up his dripping chin, and in despair gave the Snake's Call for protection,--"We be of one blood, ye and I,"--for he believed that Kaa had turned tail at the last minute. Even Baloo, half smothered under the monkeys on the edge of the terrace, could not help chuckling as he heard the big Black Panther asking for help. Kaa had only just worked his way over the west wall, landing with a wrench that dislodged a coping-stone into the ditch. He had no intention of losing any advantage of the ground, and coiled and uncoiled himself once or twice, to be sure that every foot of his long body was in working order. All that while the fight with Baloo went on, and the monkeys yelled in the tank round Bagheera, and Mang, the Bat, flying to and fro, carried the news of the great battle over the jungle, till even Hathi, the Wild Elephant, trumpeted, and, far away, scattered bands of the Monkey Folk woke and came leaping along the tree-roads to help their comrades in the Cold Lairs, and the noise of the fight roused all the day-birds for miles round. Then Kaa came straight, quickly, and anxious to kill. The fighting strength of a python is in the driving blow of his head, backed by all the strength and weight of his body. If you can imagine a lance, or a battering-ram, or a hammer, weighing nearly half a ton driven by a cool, quiet mind living in the handle of it, you can imagine roughly what Kaa was like when he fought. A python four or five feet long can knock a man down if he hits him fairly in the chest, and Kaa was thirty feet long, as you know. His first stroke was delivered into the heart of the crowd round Baloo--was sent home with shut mouth in silence, and there was no need of a second. The monkeys scattered with cries of "Kaa! It is Kaa! Run! Run!" Generations of monkeys had been scared into good behavior by the stories their elders told them of Kaa, the night-thief, who could slip along the branches as quietly as moss grows, and steal away the strongest monkey that ever lived; of old Kaa, who could make himself look so like a dead branch or a rotten stump that the wisest were deceived till the branch caught them, and then-- Kaa was everything that the monkeys feared in the jungle, for none of them knew the limits of his power, none of them could look him in the face, and none had ever come alive out of his hug. And so they ran, stammering with terror, to the walls and the roofs of the houses, and Baloo drew a deep breath of relief. His fur was much thicker than Bagheera's, but he had suffered sorely in the fight. Then Kaa opened his mouth for the first time and spoke one long hissing word, and the far-away monkeys, hurrying to the defense of the Cold Lairs, stayed where they were, cowering, till the loaded branches bent and crackled under them. The monkeys on the walls and the empty houses stopped their cries, and in the stillness that fell upon the city Mowgli heard Bagheera shaking his wet sides as he came up from the tank. Then the clamor broke out again. The monkeys leaped higher up the walls; they clung round the necks of the big stone idols and shrieked as they skipped along the battlements; while Mowgli, dancing in the summer-house, put his eye to the screenwork and hooted owl-fashion between his front teeth, to show his derision and contempt. "Get the man-cub out of that trap; I can do no more," Bagheera gasped. "Let us take the man-cub and go. They may attack again." "They will not move till I order them. Stay you sssso!" Kaa hissed, and the city was silent once more. "I could not come before, Brother, but I _think_ I heard thee call"--this was to Bagheera. "I--I may have cried out in the battle," Bagheera answered. "Baloo, art thou hurt?" "I am not sure that they have not pulled me into a hundred little bearlings," said Baloo, gravely shaking one leg after the other. "Wow! I am sore. Kaa, we owe thee, I think, our lives--Bagheera and I." "No matter. Where is the manling?" "Here, in a trap. I cannot climb out," cried Mowgli. The curve of the broken dome was above his head. "Take him away. He dances like Mao, the Peacock. He will crush our young," said the cobras inside. "Hah!" said Kaa, with a chuckle, "he has friends everywhere, this manling. Stand back, Manling; and hide you, O Poison People. I break down the wall." Kaa looked carefully till he found a discolored crack in the marble tracery showing a weak spot, made two or three light taps with his head to get the distance, and then lifting up six feet of his body clear of the ground, sent home half a dozen full-power, smashing blows, nose-first. The screenwork broke and fell away in a cloud of dust and rubbish, and Mowgli leaped through the opening and flung himself between Baloo and Bagheera--an arm round each big neck. "Art thou hurt?" said Baloo, hugging him softly. "I am sore, hungry, and not a little bruised; but, oh, they have handled ye grievously, my Brothers! Ye bleed." "Others also," said Bagheera, licking his lips and looking at the monkey-dead on the terrace and round the tank. "It is nothing, it is nothing if thou art safe, O my pride of all little frogs!" whimpered Baloo. "Of that we shall judge later," said Bagheera, in a dry voice that Mowgli did not at all like. "But here is Kaa, to whom we owe the battle and thou owest thy life. Thank him according to our customs, Mowgli." Mowgli turned and saw the great python's head swaying a foot above his own. "So this is the manling," said Kaa. "Very soft is his skin, and he is not so unlike the Bandar-log. Have a care, Manling, that I do not mistake thee for a monkey some twilight when I have newly changed my coat." "We be of one blood, thou and I," Mowgli answered. "I take my life from thee, to-night. My kill shall be thy kill if ever thou art hungry, O Kaa." "All thanks, Little Brother," said Kaa, though his eyes twinkled. "And what may so bold a hunter kill? I ask that I may follow when next he goes abroad." "I kill nothing,--I am too little,--but I drive goats toward such as can use them. When thou art empty come to me and see if I speak the truth. I have some skill in these [he held out his hands], and if ever thou art in a trap, I may pay the debt which I owe to thee, to Bagheera, and to Baloo, here. Good hunting to ye all, my masters." "Well said," growled Baloo, for Mowgli had returned thanks very prettily. The python dropped his head lightly for a minute on Mowgli's shoulder. "A brave heart and a courteous tongue," said he. "They shall carry thee far through the jungle, Manling. But now go hence quickly with thy friends. Go and sleep, for the moon sets, and what follows it is not well that thou shouldst see." The moon was sinking behind the hills and the lines of trembling monkeys huddled together on the walls and battlements looked like ragged, shaky fringes of things. Baloo went down to the tank for a drink, and Bagheera began to put his fur in order, as Kaa glided out into the center of the terrace and brought his jaws together with a ringing snap that drew all the monkeys' eyes upon him. "The moon sets," he said. "Is there yet light to see?" From the walls came a moan like the wind in the tree-tops: "We see, O Kaa!" "Good! Begins now the Dance--the Dance of the Hunger of Kaa. Sit still and watch." He turned twice or thrice in a big circle, weaving his head from right to left. Then he began making loops and figures of eight with his body, and soft, oozy triangles that melted into squares and five-sided figures, and coiled mounds, never resting, never hurrying, and never stopping his low, humming song. It grew darker and darker, till at last the dragging, shifting coils disappeared, but they could hear the rustle of the scales. Baloo and Bagheera stood still as stone, growling in their throats, their neck-hair bristling, and Mowgli watched and wondered. "Bandar-log," said the voice of Kaa at last, "can ye stir foot or hand without my order? Speak!" "Without thy order we cannot stir foot or hand, O Kaa!" "Good! Come all one pace nearer to me." The lines of the monkeys swayed forward helplessly, and Baloo and Bagheera took one stiff step forward with them. "Nearer!" hissed Kaa, and they all moved again. Mowgli laid his hands on Baloo and Bagheera to get them away, and the two great beasts started as though they had been waked from a dream. "Keep thy hand on my shoulder," Bagheera whispered. "Keep it there, or I must go back--must go back to Kaa. _Aah!_" "It is only old Kaa making circles on the dust," said Mowgli; "let us go"; and the three slipped off through a gap in the walls to the jungle. "_Whoof!_" said Baloo, when he stood under the still trees again. "Never more will I make an ally of Kaa," and he shook himself all over. "He knows more than we," said Bagheera, trembling. "In a little time, had I stayed, I should have walked down his throat." "Many will walk that road before the moon rises again," said Baloo. "He will have good hunting--after his own fashion." "But what was the meaning of it all?" said Mowgli, who did not know anything of a python's powers of fascination. "I saw no more than a big snake making foolish circles till the dark came. And his nose was all sore. Ho! Ho!" "Mowgli," said Bagheera, angrily, "his nose was sore on _thy_ account; as my ears and sides and paws, and Baloo's neck and shoulders are bitten on _thy_ account. Neither Baloo nor Bagheera will be able to hunt with pleasure for many days." "It is nothing," said Baloo; "we have the man-cub again." "True; but he has cost us most heavily in time which might have been spent in good hunting, in wounds, in hair,--I am half plucked along my back,--and last of all, in honor. For, remember, Mowgli, I, who am the Black Panther, was forced to call upon Kaa for protection, and Baloo and I were both made stupid as little birds by the Hunger-Dance. All this, Man-cub, came of thy playing with the Bandar-log." "True; it is true," said Mowgli, sorrowfully. "I am an evil man-cub, and my stomach is sad in me." "_Mf!_ What says the Law of the Jungle, Baloo?" Baloo did not wish to bring Mowgli into any more trouble, but he could not tamper with the Law, so he mumbled, "Sorrow never stays punishment. But remember, Bagheera, he is very little." "I will remember; but he has done mischief; and blows must be dealt now. Mowgli, hast thou anything to say?" "Nothing. I did wrong. Baloo and thou art wounded. It is just." Bagheera gave him half a dozen love-taps; from a panther's point of view they would hardly have waked one of his own cubs, but for a seven year-old boy they amounted to as severe a beating as you could wish to avoid. When it was all over Mowgli sneezed, and picked himself up without a word. "Now," said Bagheera, "jump on my back, Little Brother, and we will go home." One of the beauties of Jungle Law is that punishment settles all scores. There is no nagging afterward. Mowgli laid his head down on Bagheera's back and slept so deeply that he never waked when he was put down by Mother Wolf's side in the home-cave. ROAD-SONG OF THE BANDAR-LOG Here we go in a flung festoon, Half-way up to the jealous moon! Don't you envy our pranceful bands? Don't you wish you had extra hands? Wouldn't you like if your tails were--_so_-- Curved in the shape of a Cupid's bow? Now you're angry, but--never mind, _Brother, thy tail hangs down behind_! Here we sit in a branchy row, Thinking of beautiful things we know; Dreaming of deeds that we mean to do, All complete, in a minute or two-- Something noble and grand and good, Won by merely wishing we could. Now we're going to--never mind, _Brother, thy tail hangs down behind_! All the talk we ever have heard Uttered by bat or beast or bird-- Hide or fin or scale or feather-- Jabber it quickly and all together! Excellent! Wonderful! Once again! Now we are talking just like men. Let's pretend we are ... never mind, _Brother, thy tail hangs down behind_! This is the way of the Monkey-kind. _Then join our leaping lines that scumfish through the pines, That rocket by where, light and high, the wild-grape swings. By the rubbish in our wake, and the noble noise we make, Be sure, be sure, we're going to do some splendid things!_ "TIGER! TIGER!" What of the hunting, hunter bold? _Brother, the watch was long and cold._ What of the quarry ye went to kill? _Brother, he crops in the jungle still._ Where is the power that made your pride? _Brother, it ebbs from my flank and side._ Where is the haste that ye hurry by? _Brother, I go to my lair--to die._ [Illustration] "TIGER! TIGER!" NOW we must go back to the last tale but one. When Mowgli left the wolf's cave after the fight with the Pack at the Council Rock, he went down to the plowed lands where the villagers lived, but he would not stop there because it was too near to the jungle, and he knew that he had made at least one bad enemy at the Council. So he hurried on, keeping to the rough road that ran down the valley, and followed it at a steady jog-trot for nearly twenty miles, till he came to a country that he did not know. The valley opened out into a great plain dotted over with rocks and cut up by ravines. At one end stood a little village, and at the other the thick jungle came down in a sweep to the grazing-grounds, and stopped there as though it had been cut off with a hoe. All over the plain, cattle and buffaloes were grazing, and when the little boys in charge of the herds saw Mowgli they shouted and ran away, and the yellow pariah dogs that hang about every Indian village barked. Mowgli walked on, for he was feeling hungry, and when he came to the village gate he saw the big thorn-bush that was drawn up before the gate at twilight, pushed to one side. "Umph!" he said, for he had come across more than one such barricade in his night rambles after things to eat. "So men are afraid of the People of the Jungle here also." He sat down by the gate, and when a man came out he stood up, opened his mouth, and pointed down it to show that he wanted food. The man stared, and ran back up the one street of the village shouting for the priest, who was a big, fat man dressed in white, with a red and yellow mark on his forehead. The priest came to the gate, and with him at least a hundred people, who stared and talked and shouted and pointed at Mowgli. "They have no manners, these Men Folk," said Mowgli to himself. "Only the gray ape would behave as they do." So he threw back his long hair and frowned at the crowd. "What is there to be afraid of?" said the priest. "Look at the marks on his arms and legs. They are the bites of wolves. He is but a wolf-child run away from the jungle." Of course, in playing together, the cubs had often nipped Mowgli harder than they intended, and there were white scars all over his arms and legs. But he would have been the last person in the world to call these bites; for he knew what real biting meant. "_Arré! Arré!_" said two or three women together. "To be bitten by wolves, poor child! He is a handsome boy. He has eyes like red fire. By my honor, Messua, he is not unlike thy boy that was taken by the tiger." "Let me look," said a woman with heavy copper rings on her wrists and ankles, and she peered at Mowgli under the palm of her hand. "Indeed he is not. He is thinner, but he has the very look of my boy." The priest was a clever man, and he knew that Messua was wife to the richest villager in the place. So he looked up at the sky for a minute, and said solemnly: "What the jungle has taken the jungle has restored. Take the boy into thy house, my sister, and forget not to honor the priest who sees so far into the lives of men." "By the Bull that bought me," said Mowgli to himself, "but all this talking is like another looking-over by the Pack! Well, if I am a man, a man I must become." The crowd parted as the woman beckoned Mowgli to her hut, where there was a red lacquered bedstead, a great earthen grain-chest with curious raised patterns on it, half a dozen copper cooking-pots, an image of a Hindu god in a little alcove, and on the wall a real looking-glass, such as they sell at the country fairs. She gave him a long drink of milk and some bread, and then she laid her hand on his head and looked into his eyes; for she thought perhaps that he might be her real son come back from the jungle where the tiger had taken him. So she said: "Nathoo, O Nathoo!" Mowgli did not show that he knew the name. "Dost thou not remember the day when I gave thee thy new shoes?" She touched his foot, and it was almost as hard as horn. "No," she said, sorrowfully; "those feet have never worn shoes, but thou art very like my Nathoo, and thou shalt be my son." Mowgli was uneasy, because he had never been under a roof before; but as he looked at the thatch, he saw that he could tear it out any time if he wanted to get away, and that the window had no fastenings. "What is the good of a man," he said to himself at last, "if he does not understand man's talk? Now I am as silly and dumb as a man would be with us in the jungle. I must learn their talk." It was not for fun that he had learned while he was with the wolves to imitate the challenge of bucks in the jungle and the grunt of the little wild pig. So as soon as Messua pronounced a word Mowgli would imitate it almost perfectly, and before dark he had learned the names of many things in the hut. There was a difficulty at bedtime, because Mowgli would not sleep under anything that looked so like a panther-trap as that hut, and when they shut the door he went through the window. "Give him his will," said Messua's husband. "Remember he can never till now have slept on a bed. If he is indeed sent in the place of our son he will not run away." So Mowgli stretched himself in some long, clean grass at the edge of the field, but before he had closed his eyes a soft gray nose poked him under the chin. "Phew!" said Gray Brother (he was the eldest of Mother Wolf's cubs). "This is a poor reward for following thee twenty miles. Thou smellest of wood-smoke and cattle--altogether like a man already. Wake, Little Brother; I bring news." [Illustration: "'WAKE, LITTLE BROTHER; I BRING NEWS.'"] "Are all well in the jungle?" said Mowgli, hugging him. "All except the wolves that were burned with the Red Flower. Now, listen. Shere Khan has gone away to hunt far off till his coat grows again, for he is badly singed. When he returns he swears that he will lay thy bones in the Waingunga." "There are two words to that. I also have made a little promise. But news is always good. I am tired to-night,--very tired with new things, Gray Brother,--but bring me the news always." "Thou wilt not forget that thou art a wolf? Men will not make thee forget?" said Gray Brother, anxiously. "Never. I will always remember that I love thee and all in our cave; but also I will always remember that I have been cast out of the Pack." "And that thou mayest be cast out of another pack. Men are only men, Little Brother, and their talk is like the talk of frogs in a pond. When I come down here again, I will wait for thee in the bamboos at the edge of the grazing-ground." For three months after that night Mowgli hardly ever left the village gate, he was so busy learning the ways and customs of men. First he had to wear a cloth round him, which annoyed him horribly; and then he had to learn about money, which he did not in the least understand, and about plowing, of which he did not see the use. Then the little children in the village made him very angry. Luckily, the Law of the Jungle had taught him to keep his temper, for in the jungle, life and food depend on keeping your temper; but when they made fun of him because he would not play games or fly kites, or because he mispronounced some word, only the knowledge that it was unsportsmanlike to kill little naked cubs kept him from picking them up and breaking them in two. He did not know his own strength in the least. In the jungle he knew he was weak compared with the beasts, but in the village, people said he was as strong as a bull. And Mowgli had not the faintest idea of the difference that caste makes between man and man. When the potter's donkey slipped in the clay-pit, Mowgli hauled it out by the tail, and helped to stack the pots for their journey to the market at Khanhiwara. That was very shocking, too, for the potter is a low-caste man, and his donkey is worse. When the priest scolded him, Mowgli threatened to put him on the donkey, too, and the priest told Messua's husband that Mowgli had better be set to work as soon as possible; and the village head-man told Mowgli that he would have to go out with the buffaloes next day, and herd them while they grazed. No one was more pleased than Mowgli; and that night, because he had been appointed a servant of the village, as it were, he went off to a circle that met every evening on a masonry platform under a great fig-tree. It was the village club, and the head-man and the watchman and the barber (who knew all the gossip of the village), and old Buldeo, the village hunter, who had a Tower musket, met and smoked. The monkeys sat and talked in the upper branches, and there was a hole under the platform where a cobra lived, and he had his little platter of milk every night because he was sacred; and the old men sat around the tree and talked, and pulled at the big _huqas_ (the water-pipes) till far into the night. They told wonderful tales of gods and men and ghosts; and Buldeo told even more wonderful ones of the ways of beasts in the jungle, till the eyes of the children sitting outside the circle bulged out of their heads. Most of the tales were about animals, for the jungle was always at their door. The deer and the wild pig grubbed up their crops, and now and again the tiger carried off a man at twilight, within sight of the village gates. Mowgli, who naturally knew something about what they were talking of, had to cover his face not to show that he was laughing, while Buldeo, the Tower musket across his knees, climbed on from one wonderful story to another, and Mowgli's shoulders shook. Buldeo was explaining how the tiger that had carried away Messua's son was a ghost-tiger, and his body was inhabited by the ghost of a wicked old money-lender, who had died some years ago. "And I know that this is true," he said, "because Purun Dass always limped from the blow that he got in a riot when his account-books were burned, and the tiger that I speak of _he_ limps, too, for the tracks of his pads are unequal." "True, true; that must be the truth," said the graybeards, nodding together. "Are all these tales such cobwebs and moon-talk?" said Mowgli. "That tiger limps because he was born lame, as every one knows. To talk of the soul of a money-lender in a beast that never had the courage of a jackal is child's talk." [Illustration: "'ARE ALL THESE TALES SUCH COBWEBS AND MOONTALK?' SAID MOWGLI."] Buldeo was speechless with surprise for a moment, and the head-man stared. "Oho! It is the jungle brat, is it?" said Buldeo. "If thou art so wise, better bring his hide to Khanhiwara, for the Government has set a hundred rupees [$30] on his life. Better still, do not talk when thy elders speak." Mowgli rose to go. "All the evening I have lain here listening," he called back over his shoulder, "and, except once or twice, Buldeo has not said one word of truth concerning the jungle, which is at his very doors. How, then, shall I believe the tales of ghosts and gods and goblins which he says he has seen?" "It is full time that boy went to herding," said the head-man, while Buldeo puffed and snorted at Mowgli's impertinence. The custom of most Indian villages is for a few boys to take the cattle and buffaloes out to graze in the early morning, and bring them back at night; and the very cattle that would trample a white man to death allow themselves to be banged and bullied and shouted at by children that hardly come up to their noses. So long as the boys keep with the herds they are safe, for not even the tiger will charge a mob of cattle. But if they straggle to pick flowers or hunt lizards, they are sometimes carried off. Mowgli went through the village street in the dawn, sitting on the back of Rama, the great herd bull; and the slaty-blue buffaloes, with their long, backward-sweeping horns and savage eyes, rose out of their byres, one by one, and followed him, and Mowgli made it very clear to the children with him that he was the master. He beat the buffaloes with a long, polished bamboo, and told Kamya, one of the boys, to graze the cattle by themselves, while he went on with the buffaloes, and to be very careful not to stray away from the herd. An Indian grazing-ground is all rocks and scrub and tussocks and little ravines, among which the herds scatter and disappear. The buffaloes generally keep to the pools and muddy places, where they lie wallowing or basking in the warm mud for hours. Mowgli drove them on to the edge of the plain where the Waingunga River came out of the jungle; then he dropped from Rama's neck, trotted off to a bamboo clump, and found Gray Brother. "Ah," said Gray Brother, "I have waited here very many days. What is the meaning of this cattle-herding work?" "It is an order," said Mowgli. "I am a village herd for a while. What news of Shere Khan?" "He has come back to this country, and has waited here a long time for thee. Now he has gone off again, for the game is scarce. But he means to kill thee." "Very good," said Mowgli. "So long as he is away do thou or one of the brothers sit on that rock, so that I can see thee as I come out of the village. When he comes back wait for me in the ravine by the _dhâk_-tree in the center of the plain. We need not walk into Shere Khan's mouth." Then Mowgli picked out a shady place, and lay down and slept while the buffaloes grazed round him. Herding in India is one of the laziest things in the world. The cattle move and crunch, and lie down, and move on again, and they do not even low. They only grunt, and the buffaloes very seldom say anything, but get down into the muddy pools one after another, and work their way into the mud till only their noses and staring china-blue eyes show above the surface, and there they lie like logs. The sun makes the rocks dance in the heat, and the herd-children hear one kite (never any more) whistling almost out of sight overhead, and they know that if they died, or a cow died, that kite would sweep down, and the next kite miles away would see him drop and follow, and the next, and the next, and almost before they were dead there would be a score of hungry kites come out of nowhere. Then they sleep and wake and sleep again, and weave little baskets of dried grass and put grasshoppers in them; or catch two praying-mantises and make them fight; or string a necklace of red and black jungle-nuts; or watch a lizard basking on a rock, or a snake hunting a frog near the wallows. Then they sing long, long songs with odd native quavers at the end of them, and the day seems longer than most people's whole lives, and perhaps they make a mud castle with mud figures of men and horses and buffaloes, and put reeds into the men's hands, and pretend that they are kings and the figures are their armies, or that they are gods to be worshiped. Then evening comes, and the children call, and the buffaloes lumber up out of the sticky mud with noises like gunshots going off one after the other, and they all string across the gray plain back to the twinkling village lights. Day after day Mowgli would lead the buffaloes out to their wallows, and day after day he would see Gray Brother's back a mile and a half away across the plain (so he knew that Shere Khan had not come back), and day after day he would lie on the grass listening to the noise round him, and dreaming of old days in the jungle. If Shere Khan had made a false step with his lame paw up in the jungles by the Waingunga, Mowgli would have heard him in those long still mornings. [Illustration] At last a day came when he did not see Gray Brother at the signal place, and he laughed and headed the buffaloes for the ravine by the _dhâk_-tree, which was all covered with golden-red flowers. There sat Gray Brother, every bristle on his back lifted. "He has hidden for a month to throw thee off thy guard. He crossed the ranges last night with Tabaqui, hot-foot on thy trail," said the wolf, panting. Mowgli frowned. "I am not afraid of Shere Khan, but Tabaqui is very cunning." "Have no fear," said Gray Brother, licking his lips a little. "I met Tabaqui in the dawn. Now he is telling all his wisdom to the kites, but he told _me_ everything before I broke his back. Shere Khan's plan is to wait for thee at the village gate this evening--for thee and for no one else. He is lying up now in the big dry ravine of the Waingunga." "Has he eaten to-day, or does he hunt empty?" said Mowgli, for the answer meant life or death to him. "He killed at dawn,--a pig,--and he has drunk too. Remember, Shere Khan could never fast even for the sake of revenge." "Oh! Fool, fool! What a cub's cub it is! Eaten and drunk too, and he thinks that I shall wait till he has slept! Now, where does he lie up? If there were but ten of us we might pull him down as he lies. These buffaloes will not charge unless they wind him, and I cannot speak their language. Can we get behind his track so that they may smell it?" "He swam far down the Waingunga to cut that off," said Gray Brother. "Tabaqui told him that, I know. He would never have thought of it alone." Mowgli stood with his finger in his mouth, thinking. "The big ravine of the Waingunga. That opens out on the plain not half a mile from here. I can take the herd round through the jungle to the head of the ravine and then sweep down--but he would slink out at the foot. We must block that end. Gray Brother, canst thou cut the herd in two for me?" "Not I, perhaps--but I have brought a wise helper." Gray Brother trotted off and dropped into a hole. Then there lifted up a huge gray head that Mowgli knew well, and the hot air was filled with the most desolate cry of all the jungle--the hunting-howl of a wolf at midday. "Akela! Akela!" said Mowgli, clapping his hands. "I might have known that thou wouldst not forget me. We have a big work in hand. Cut the herd in two, Akela. Keep the cows and calves together, and the bulls and the plow-buffaloes by themselves." The two wolves ran, ladies'-chain fashion, in and out of the herd, which snorted and threw up its head, and separated into two clumps. In one the cow-buffaloes stood, with their calves in the center, and glared and pawed, ready, if a wolf would only stay still, to charge down and trample the life out of him. In the other the bulls and the young bulls snorted and stamped; but, though they looked more imposing, they were much less dangerous, for they had no calves to protect. No six men could have divided the herd so neatly. "What orders!" panted Akela. "They are trying to join again." Mowgli slipped on to Rama's back. "Drive the bulls away to the left, Akela. Gray Brother, when we are gone hold the cows together, and drive them into the foot of the ravine." "How far?" said Gray Brother, panting and snapping. "Till the sides are higher than Shere Khan can jump," shouted Mowgli. "Keep them there till we come down." The bulls swept off as Akela bayed, and Gray Brother stopped in front of the cows. They charged down on him, and he ran just before them to the foot of the ravine, as Akela drove the bulls far to the left. "Well done! Another charge and they are fairly started. Careful, now--careful, Akela. A snap too much, and the bulls will charge. _Hujah!_ This is wilder work than driving black-buck. Didst thou think these creatures could move so swiftly?" Mowgli called. "I have--have hunted these too in my time," gasped Akela in the dust. "Shall I turn them into the jungle?" "Ay, turn! Swiftly turn them. Rama is mad with rage. Oh, if I could only tell him what I need of him to-day!" The bulls were turned to the right this time, and crashed into the standing thicket. The other herd-children, watching with the cattle half a mile away, hurried to the village as fast as their legs could carry them, crying that the buffaloes had gone mad and run away. But Mowgli's plan was simple enough. All he wanted to do was to make a big circle uphill and get at the head of the ravine, and then take the bulls down it and catch Shere Khan between the bulls and the cows, for he knew that after a meal and a full drink Shere Khan would not be in any condition to fight or to clamber up the sides of the ravine. He was soothing the buffaloes now by voice, and Akela had dropped far to the rear, only whimpering once or twice to hurry the rear-guard. It was a long, long circle, for they did not wish to get too near the ravine and give Shere Khan warning. At last Mowgli rounded up the bewildered herd at the head of the ravine on a grassy patch that sloped steeply down to the ravine itself. From that height you could see across the tops of the trees down to the plain below; but what Mowgli looked at was the sides of the ravine, and he saw with a great deal of satisfaction that they ran nearly straight up and down, and the vines and creepers that hung over them would give no foothold to a tiger who wanted to get out. "Let them breathe, Akela," he said, holding up his hand. "They have not winded him yet. Let them breathe. I must tell Shere Khan who comes. We have him in the trap." He put his hands to his mouth and shouted down the ravine,--it was almost like shouting down a tunnel,--and the echoes jumped from rock to rock. After a long time there came back the drawling, sleepy snarl of a full-fed tiger just awakened. "Who calls?" said Shere Khan, and a splendid peacock fluttered up out of the ravine, screeching. "I, Mowgli. Cattle-thief, it is time to come to the Council Rock! Down--hurry them down, Akela. Down, Rama, down!" The herd paused for an instant at the edge of the slope, but Akela gave tongue in the full hunting-yell, and they pitched over one after the other just as steamers shoot rapids, the sand and stones spurting up round them. Once started, there was no chance of stopping, and before they were fairly in the bed of the ravine Rama winded Shere Khan and bellowed. "Ha! Ha!" said Mowgli, on his back. "Now thou knowest!" and the torrent of black horns, foaming muzzles, and staring eyes whirled down the ravine like boulders in flood-time; the weaker buffaloes being shouldered out to the sides of the ravine where they tore through the creepers. They knew what the business was before them--the terrible charge of the buffalo-herd, against which no tiger can hope to stand. Shere Khan heard the thunder of their hoofs, picked himself up, and lumbered down the ravine, looking from side to side for some way of escape, but the walls of the ravine were straight, and he had to keep on, heavy with his dinner and his drink, willing to do anything rather than fight. The herd splashed through the pool he had just left, bellowing till the narrow cut rang. Mowgli heard an answering bellow from the foot of the ravine, saw Shere Khan turn (the tiger knew if the worst came to the worst it was better to meet the bulls than the cows with their calves), and then Rama tripped, stumbled, and went on again over something soft, and, with the bulls at his heels, crashed full into the other herd, while the weaker buffaloes were lifted clean off their feet by the shock of the meeting. That charge carried both herds out into the plain, goring and stamping and snorting. Mowgli watched his time, and slipped off Rama's neck, laying about him right and left with his stick. "Quick, Akela! Break them up. Scatter them, or they will be fighting one another. Drive them away, Akela. _Hai_, Rama! _Hai! hai! hai!_ my children. Softly now, softly! It is all over." Akela and Gray Brother ran to and fro nipping the buffaloes' legs, and though the herd wheeled once to charge up the ravine again, Mowgli managed to turn Rama, and the others followed him to the wallows. Shere Khan needed no more trampling. He was dead, and the kites were coming for him already. "Brothers, that was a dog's death," said Mowgli, feeling for the knife he always carried in a sheath round his neck now that he lived with men. "But he would never have shown fight. His hide will look well on the Council Rock. We must get to work swiftly." A boy trained among men would never have dreamed of skinning a ten-foot tiger alone, but Mowgli knew better than any one else how an animal's skin is fitted on, and how it can be taken off. But it was hard work, and Mowgli slashed and tore and grunted for an hour, while the wolves lolled out their tongues, or came forward and tugged as he ordered them. Presently a hand fell on his shoulder, and looking up he saw Buldeo with the Tower musket. The children had told the village about the buffalo stampede, and Buldeo went out angrily, only too anxious to correct Mowgli for not taking better care of the herd. The wolves dropped out of sight as soon as they saw the man coming. "What is this folly?" said Buldeo, angrily. "To think that thou canst skin a tiger! Where did the buffaloes kill him? It is the Lame Tiger, too, and there is a hundred rupees on his head. Well, well, we will overlook thy letting the herd run off, and perhaps I will give thee one of the rupees of the reward when I have taken the skin to Khanhiwara." He fumbled in his waist-cloth for flint and steel, and stooped down to singe Shere Khan's whiskers. Most native hunters singe a tiger's whiskers to prevent his ghost haunting them. "Hum!" said Mowgli, half to himself as he ripped back the skin of a fore paw. "So thou wilt take the hide to Khanhiwara for the reward, and perhaps give me one rupee? Now it is in my mind that I need the skin for my own use. Heh! old man, take away that fire!" "What talk is this to the chief hunter of the village? Thy luck and the stupidity of thy buffaloes have helped thee to this kill. The tiger has just fed, or he would have gone twenty miles by this time. Thou canst not even skin him properly, little beggar-brat, and forsooth I, Buldeo, must be told not to singe his whiskers. Mowgli, I will not give thee one anna of the reward, but only a very big beating. Leave the carcass!" "By the Bull that bought me," said Mowgli, who was trying to get at the shoulder, "must I stay babbling to an old ape all noon? Here, Akela, this man plagues me." Buldeo, who was still stooping over Shere Khan's head, found himself sprawling on the grass, with a gray wolf standing over him, while Mowgli went on skinning as though he were alone in all India. "Ye-es," he said, between his teeth. "Thou art altogether right, Buldeo. Thou wilt never give me one anna of the reward. There is an old war between this lame tiger and myself--a very old war, and--I have won." To do Buldeo justice, if he had been ten years younger he would have taken his chance with Akela had he met the wolf in the woods, but a wolf who obeyed the orders of this boy who had private wars with man-eating tigers was not a common animal. It was sorcery, magic of the worst kind, thought Buldeo, and he wondered whether the amulet round his neck would protect him. He lay as still as still, expecting every minute to see Mowgli turn into a tiger, too. [Illustration: "BULDEO LAY AS STILL AS STILL, EXPECTING EVERY MINUTE TO SEE MOWGLI TURN INTO A TIGER, TOO."] "Maharaj! Great King," he said at last, in a husky whisper. "Yes," said Mowgli, without turning his head, chuckling a little. "I am an old man. I did not know that thou wast anything more than a herd-boy. May I rise up and go away, or will thy servant tear me to pieces?" "Go, and peace go with thee. Only, another time do not meddle with my game. Let him go, Akela." Buldeo hobbled away to the village as fast as he could, looking back over his shoulder in case Mowgli should change into something terrible. When he got to the village he told a tale of magic and enchantment and sorcery that made the priest look very grave. Mowgli went on with his work, but it was nearly twilight before he and the wolves had drawn the great gay skin clear of the body. "Now we must hide this and take the buffaloes home! Help me to herd them, Akela." The herd rounded up in the misty twilight, and when they got near the village Mowgli saw lights, and heard the conches and bells in the temple blowing and banging. Half the village seemed to be waiting for him by the gate. "That is because I have killed Shere Khan," he said to himself; but a shower of stones whistled about his ears, and the villagers shouted: "Sorcerer! Wolf's brat! Jungle-demon! Go away! Get hence quickly, or the priest will turn thee into a wolf again. Shoot, Buldeo, shoot!" The old Tower musket went off with a bang, and a young buffalo bellowed in pain. "More sorcery!" shouted the villagers. "He can turn bullets. Buldeo, that was _thy_ buffalo." "Now what is this?" said Mowgli, bewildered, as the stones flew thicker. "They are not unlike the Pack, these brothers of thine," said Akela, sitting down composedly. "It is in my head that, if bullets mean anything, they would cast thee out." "Wolf! Wolf's cub! Go away!" shouted the priest, waving a sprig of the sacred _tulsi_ plant. "Again? Last time it was because I was a man. This time it is because I am a wolf. Let us go, Akela." A woman--it was Messua--ran across to the herd, and cried: "Oh, my son, my son! They say thou art a sorcerer who can turn himself into a beast at will. I do not believe, but go away or they will kill thee. Buldeo says thou art a wizard, but I know thou hast avenged Nathoo's death." "Come back, Messua!" shouted the crowd. "Come back, or we will stone thee." Mowgli laughed a little short ugly laugh, for a stone had hit him in the mouth. "Run back, Messua. This is one of the foolish tales they tell under the big tree at dusk. I have at least paid for thy son's life. Farewell; and run quickly, for I shall send the herd in more swiftly than their brickbats. I am no wizard, Messua. Farewell! "Now, once more, Akela," he cried. "Bring the herd in." The buffaloes were anxious enough to get to the village. They hardly needed Akela's yell, but charged through the gate like a whirlwind, scattering the crowd right and left. "Keep count!" shouted Mowgli, scornfully. "It may be that I have stolen one of them. Keep count, for I will do your herding no more. Fare you well, children of men, and thank Messua that I do not come in with my wolves and hunt you up and down your street." He turned on his heel and walked away with the Lone Wolf; and as he looked up at the stars he felt happy. "No more sleeping in traps for me, Akela. Let us get Shere Khan's skin and go away. No; we will not hurt the village, for Messua was kind to me." When the moon rose over the plain, making it look all milky, the horrified villagers saw Mowgli, with two wolves at his heels and a bundle on his head, trotting across at the steady wolf's trot that eats up the long miles like fire. Then they banged the temple bells and blew the conches louder than ever; and Messua cried, and Buldeo embroidered the story of his adventures in the jungle, till he ended by saying that Akela stood up on his hind legs and talked like a man. [Illustration: "WHEN THE MOON ROSE OVER THE PLAIN THE VILLAGERS SAW MOWGLI TROTTING ACROSS, WITH TWO WOLVES AT HIS HEELS."] The moon was just going down when Mowgli and the two wolves came to the hill of the Council Rock, and they stopped at Mother Wolf's cave. "They have cast me out from the Man Pack, Mother," shouted Mowgli, "but I come with the hide of Shere Khan to keep my word." Mother Wolf walked stiffly from the cave with the cubs behind her, and her eyes glowed as she saw the skin. "I told him on that day, when he crammed his head and shoulders into this cave, hunting for thy life, Little Frog--I told him that the hunter would be the hunted. It is well done." "Little Brother, it is well done," said a deep voice in the thicket. "We were lonely in the jungle without thee," and Bagheera came running to Mowgli's bare feet. They clambered up the Council Rock together, and Mowgli spread the skin out on the flat stone where Akela used to sit, and pegged it down with four slivers of bamboo, and Akela lay down upon it, and called the old call to the Council, "Look--look well, O Wolves!" exactly as he had called when Mowgli was first brought there. [Illustration: "THEY CLAMBERED UP ON THE COUNCIL ROCK TOGETHER, AND MOWGLI SPREAD THE SKIN OUT ON THE FLAT STONE."] Ever since Akela had been deposed, the Pack had been without a leader, hunting and fighting at their own pleasure. But they answered the call from habit, and some of them were lame from the traps they had fallen into, and some limped from shot-wounds, and some were mangy from eating bad food, and many were missing; but they came to the Council Rock, all that were left of them, and saw Shere Khan's striped hide on the rock, and the huge claws dangling at the end of the empty, dangling feet. It was then that Mowgli made up a song without any rhymes, a song that came up into his throat all by itself, and he shouted it aloud, leaping up and down on the rattling skin, and beating time with his heels till he had no more breath left, while Gray Brother and Akela howled between the verses. "Look well, O Wolves. Have I kept my word?" said Mowgli when he had finished; and the wolves bayed "Yes," and one tattered wolf howled: "Lead us again, O Akela. Lead us again, O Man-cub, for we be sick of this lawlessness, and we would be the Free People once more." "Nay," purred Bagheera, "that may not be. When ye are full-fed, the madness may come upon ye again. Not for nothing are ye called the Free People. Ye fought for freedom, and it is yours. Eat it, O Wolves." "Man Pack and Wolf Pack have cast me out," said Mowgli. "Now I will hunt alone in the jungle." "And we will hunt with thee," said the four cubs. So Mowgli went away and hunted with the four cubs in the jungle from that day on. But he was not always alone, because years afterward he became a man and married. But that is a story for grown-ups. MOWGLI'S SONG THAT HE SANG AT THE COUNCIL ROCK WHEN HE DANCED ON SHERE KHAN'S HIDE The Song of Mowgli--I, Mowgli, am singing. Let the jungle listen to the things I have done. Shere Khan said he would kill--would kill! At the gates in the twilight he would kill Mowgli, the Frog! He ate and he drank. Drink deep, Shere Khan, for when wilt thou drink again? Sleep and dream of the kill. I am alone on the grazing-grounds. Gray Brother, come to me! Come to me, Lone Wolf, for there is big game afoot. Bring up the great bull-buffaloes, the blue-skinned herd-bulls with the angry eyes. Drive them to and fro as I order. Sleepest thou still, Shere Khan? Wake, O wake! Here come I, and the bulls are behind. Rama, the King of the Buffaloes, stamped with his foot. Waters of the Waingunga, whither went Shere Khan? He is not Ikki to dig holes, nor Mao, the Peacock, that he should fly. He is not Mang, the Bat, to hang in the branches. Little bamboos that creak together, tell me where he ran? _Ow!_ He is there. _Ahoo!_ He is there. Under the feet of Rama lies the Lame One! Up, Shere Khan! Up and kill! Here is meat; break the necks of the bulls! _Hsh!_ He is asleep. We will not wake him, for his strength is very great. The kites have come down to see it. The black ants have come up to know it. There is a great assembly in his honor. _Alala!_ I have no cloth to wrap me. The kites will see that I am naked. I am ashamed to meet all these people. Lend me thy coat, Shere Khan. Lend me thy gay striped coat that I may go to the Council Rock. By the Bull that bought me I have made a promise--a little promise. Only thy coat is lacking before I keep my word. With the knife--with the knife that men use--with the knife of the hunter, the man, I will stoop down for my gift. Waters of the Waingunga, bear witness that Shere Khan gives me his coat for the love that he bears me. Pull, Gray Brother! Pull, Akela! Heavy is the hide of Shere Khan. The Man Pack are angry. They throw stones and talk child's talk. My mouth is bleeding. Let us run away. Through the night, through the hot night, run swiftly with me, my brothers. We will leave the lights of the village and go to the low moon. Waters of the Waingunga, the Man Pack have cast me out. I did them no harm, but they were afraid of me. Why? Wolf Pack, ye have cast me out too. The jungle is shut to me and the village gates are shut. Why? As Mang flies between the beasts and the birds so fly I between the village and the jungle. Why? I dance on the hide of Shere Khan, but my heart is very heavy. My mouth is cut and wounded with the stones from the village, but my heart is very light because I have come back to the jungle. Why? These two things fight together in me as the snakes fight in the spring. The water comes out of my eyes; yet I laugh while it falls. Why? I am two Mowglis, but the hide of Shere Khan is under my feet. All the jungle knows that I have killed Shere Khan. Look--look well, O Wolves! _Ahae!_ My heart is heavy with the things that I do not understand. THE WHITE SEAL Oh! hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us, And black are the waters that sparkled so green. The moon, o'er the combers, looks downward to find us At rest in the hollows that rustle between. Where billow meets billow, there soft be thy pillow; Ah, weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease! The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee, Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas. _Seal Lullaby._ [Illustration] THE WHITE SEAL ALL these things happened several years ago at a place called Novastoshnah, or North East Point, on the Island of St. Paul, away and away in the Bering Sea. Limmershin, the Winter Wren, told me the tale when he was blown on to the rigging of a steamer going to Japan, and I took him down into my cabin and warmed and fed him for a couple of days till he was fit to fly back to St. Paul's again. Limmershin is a very odd little bird, but he knows how to tell the truth. Nobody comes to Novastoshnah except on business, and the only people who have regular business there are the seals. They come in the summer months by hundreds and hundreds of thousands out of the cold gray sea; for Novastoshnah Beach has the finest accommodation for seals of any place in all the world. Sea Catch knew that, and every spring would swim from whatever place he happened to be in--would swim like a torpedo-boat straight for Novastoshnah, and spend a month fighting with his companions for a good place on the rocks as close to the sea as possible. Sea Catch was fifteen years old, a huge gray fur-seal with almost a mane on his shoulders, and long, wicked dogteeth. When he heaved himself up on his front flippers he stood more than four feet clear of the ground, and his weight, if any one had been bold enough to weigh him, was nearly seven hundred pounds. He was scarred all over with the marks of savage fights, but he was always ready for just one fight more. He would put his head on one side, as though he were afraid to look his enemy in the face; then he would shoot it out like lightning, and when the big teeth were firmly fixed on the other seal's neck, the other seal might get away if he could, but Sea Catch would not help him. Yet Sea Catch never chased a beaten seal, for that was against the Rules of the Beach. He only wanted room by the sea for his nursery; but as there were forty or fifty thousand other seals hunting for the same thing each spring, the whistling, bellowing, roaring, and blowing on the beach was something frightful. From a little hill called Hutchinson's Hill you could look over three and a half miles of ground covered with fighting seals; and the surf was dotted all over with the heads of seals hurrying to land and begin their share of the fighting. They fought in the breakers, they fought in the sand, and they fought on the smooth-worn basalt rocks of the nurseries; for they were just as stupid and unaccommodating as men. Their wives never came to the island until late in May or early in June, for they did not care to be torn to pieces; and the young two-, three-, and four-year-old seals who had not begun housekeeping went inland about half a mile through the ranks of the fighters and played about on the sand-dunes in droves and legions, and rubbed off every single green thing that grew. They were called the holluschickie,--the bachelors,--and there were perhaps two or three hundred thousand of them at Novastoshnah alone. Sea Catch had just finished his forty-fifth fight one spring when Matkah, his soft, sleek, gentle-eyed wife came up out of the sea, and he caught her by the scruff of the neck and dumped her down on his reservation, saying gruffly: "Late, as usual. Where _have_ you been?" It was not the fashion for Sea Catch to eat anything during the four months he stayed on the beaches, and so his temper was generally bad. Matkah knew better than to answer back. She looked around and cooed: "How thoughtful of you. You've taken the old place again." "I should think I had," said Sea Catch. "Look at me!" He was scratched and bleeding in twenty places; one eye was almost blind, and his sides were torn to ribbons. "Oh, you men, you men!" Matkah said, fanning herself with her hind flipper. "Why can't you be sensible and settle your places quietly? You look as though you had been fighting with the Killer Whale." "I haven't been doing anything _but_ fight since the middle of May. The beach is disgracefully crowded this season. I've met at least a hundred seals from Lukannon Beach, house-hunting. Why can't people stay where they belong?" "I've often thought we should be much happier if we hauled out at Otter Island instead of this crowded place," said Matkah. "Bah! Only the holluschickie go to Otter Island. If we went there they would say we were afraid. We must preserve appearances, my dear." Sea Catch sunk his head proudly between his fat shoulders and pretended to go to sleep for a few minutes, but all the time he was keeping a sharp lookout for a fight. Now that all the seals and their wives were on the land you could hear their clamor miles out to sea above the loudest gales. At the lowest counting there were over a million seals on the beach,--old seals, mother seals, tiny babies, and holluschickie, fighting, scuffling, bleating, crawling, and playing together,--going down to the sea and coming up from it in gangs and regiments, lying over every foot of ground as far as the eye could reach, and skirmishing about in brigades through the fog. It is nearly always foggy at Novastoshnah, except when the sun comes out and makes everything look all pearly and rainbow-colored for a little while. Kotick, Matkah's baby, was born in the middle of that confusion, and he was all head and shoulders, with pale, watery blue eyes, as tiny seals must be; but there was something about his coat that made his mother look at him very closely. "Sea Catch," she said, at last, "our baby's going to be white!" "Empty clam-shells and dry seaweed!" snorted Sea Catch. "There never has been such a thing in the world as a white seal." "I can't help that," said Matkah; "there's going to be now"; and she sang the low, crooning seal-song that all the mother seals sing to their babies: You mustn't swim till you're six weeks old, Or your head will be sunk by your heels; And summer gales and Killer Whales Are bad for baby seals. Are bad for baby seals, dear rat, As bad as bad can be; But splash and grow strong, And you can't be wrong, Child of the Open Sea! Of course the little fellow did not understand the words at first. He paddled and scrambled about by his mother's side, and learned to scuffle out of the way when his father was fighting with another seal, and the two rolled and roared up and down the slippery rocks. Matkah used to go to sea to get things to eat, and the baby was fed only once in two days; but then he ate all he could, and throve upon it. The first thing he did was to crawl inland, and there he met tens of thousands of babies of his own age, and they played together like puppies, went to sleep on the clean sand, and played again. The old people in the nurseries took no notice of them, and the holluschickie kept to their own grounds, so the babies had a beautiful playtime. When Matkah came back from her deep-sea fishing she would go straight to their playground and call as a sheep calls for a lamb, and wait until she heard Kotick bleat. Then she would take the straightest of straight lines in his direction, striking out with her fore flippers and knocking the youngsters head over heels right and left. There were always a few hundred mothers hunting for their children through the playgrounds, and the babies were kept lively; but, as Matkah told Kotick, "So long as you don't lie in muddy water and get mange; or rub the hard sand into a cut or scratch; and so long as you never go swimming when there is a heavy sea, nothing will hurt you here." Little seals can no more swim than little children, but they are unhappy till they learn. The first time that Kotick went down to the sea a wave carried him out beyond his depth, and his big head sank and his little hind flippers flew up exactly as his mother had told him in the song, and if the next wave had not thrown him back again he would have drowned. After that he learned to lie in a beach-pool and let the wash of the waves just cover him and lift him up while he paddled, but he always kept his eye open for big waves that might hurt. He was two weeks learning to use his flippers; and all that while he floundered in and out of the water, and coughed and grunted and crawled up the beach and took cat-naps on the sand, and went back again, until at last he found that he truly belonged to the water. Then you can imagine the times that he had with his companions, ducking under the rollers; or coming in on top of a comber and landing with a swash and a splutter as the big wave went whirling far up the beach; or standing up on his tail and scratching his head as the old people did; or playing "I'm the King of the Castle" on slippery, weedy rocks that just stuck out of the wash. Now and then he would see a thin fin, like a big shark's fin, drifting along close to shore, and he knew that that was the Killer Whale, the Grampus, who eats young seals when he can get them; and Kotick would head for the beach like an arrow, and the fin would jig off slowly, as if it were looking for nothing at all. Late in October the seals began to leave St. Paul's for the deep sea, by families and tribes, and there was no more fighting over the nurseries, and the holluschickie played anywhere they liked. "Next year," said Matkah to Kotick, "you will be a holluschickie; but this year you must learn how to catch fish." They set out together across the Pacific, and Matkah showed Kotick how to sleep on his back with his flippers tucked down by his side and his little nose just out of the water. No cradle is so comfortable as the long, rocking swell of the Pacific. When Kotick felt his skin tingle all over, Matkah told him he was learning the "feel of the water," and that tingly, prickly feelings meant bad weather coming, and he must swim hard and get away. "In a little time," she said, "you'll know where to swim to, but just now we'll follow Sea Pig, the Porpoise, for he is very wise." A school of porpoises were ducking and tearing through the water, and little Kotick followed them as fast as he could. "How do you know where to go to?" he panted. The leader of the school rolled his white eyes, and ducked under. "My tail tingles, youngster," he said. "That means there's a gale behind me. Come along! When you're south of the Sticky Water [he meant the Equator], and your tail tingles, that means there's a gale in front of you and you must head north. Come along! The water feels bad here." This was one of very many things that Kotick learned, and he was always learning. Matkah taught him how to follow the cod and the halibut along the under-sea banks, and wrench the rockling out of his hole among the weeds; how to skirt the wrecks lying a hundred fathoms below water, and dart like a rifle-bullet in at one porthole and out at another as the fishes ran; how to dance on the top of the waves when the lightning was racing all over the sky, and wave his flipper politely to the Stumpy-tailed Albatross and the Man-of-war Hawk as they went down the wind; how to jump three or four feet clear of the water, like a dolphin, flippers close to the side and tail curved; to leave the flying-fish alone because they are all bony; to take the shoulder-piece out of a cod at full speed ten fathoms deep; and never to stop and look at a boat or a ship, but particularly a row boat. At the end of six months, what Kotick did not know about deep-sea fishing was not worth the knowing, and all that time he never set flipper on dry ground. [Illustration: "TEN FATHOMS DEEP."] One day, however, as he was lying half asleep in the warm water somewhere off the Island of Juan Fernandez, he felt faint and lazy all over, just as human people do when the spring is in their legs, and he remembered the good firm beaches of Novastoshnah seven thousand miles away; the games his companions played, the smell of the seaweed, the seal-roar, and the fighting. That very minute he turned north, swimming steadily, and as he went on he met scores of his mates, all bound for the same place, and they said: "Greeting, Kotick! This year we are all holluschickie, and we can dance the Fire-dance in the breakers off Lukannon and play on the new grass. But where did you get that coat?" Kotick's fur was almost pure white now, and though he felt very proud of it, he only said: "Swim quickly! My bones are aching for the land." And so they all came to the beaches where they had been born and heard the old seals, their fathers, fighting in the rolling mist. That night Kotick danced the Fire-dance with the yearling seals. The sea is full of fire on summer nights all the way down from Novastoshnah to Lukannon, and each seal leaves a wake like burning oil behind him, and a flaming flash when he jumps, and the waves break in great phosphorescent streaks and swirls. Then they went inland to the holluschickie grounds, and rolled up and down in the new wild wheat, and told stories of what they had done while they had been at sea. They talked about the Pacific as boys would talk about a wood that they had been nutting in, and if any one had understood them, he could have gone away and made such a chart of that ocean as never was. The three- and four-year-old holluschickie romped down from Hutchinson's Hill, crying: "Out of the way, youngsters! The sea is deep, and you don't know all that's in it yet. Wait till you've rounded the Horn. Hi, you yearling, where did you get that white coat?" "I didn't get it," said Kotick; "it grew." And just as he was going to roll the speaker over, a couple of black-haired men with flat red faces came from behind a sand-dune, and Kotick, who had never seen a man before, coughed and lowered his head. The holluschickie just bundled off a few yards and sat staring stupidly. The men were no less than Kerick Booterin, the chief of the seal-hunters on the island, and Patalamon, his son. They came from the little village not half a mile from the seal nurseries, and they were deciding what seals they would drive up to the killing-pens (for the seals were driven just like sheep), to be turned into sealskin jackets later on. "Ho!" said Patalamon. "Look! There's a white seal!" Kerick Booterin turned nearly white under his oil and smoke, for he was an Aleut, and Aleuts are not clean people. Then he began to mutter a prayer. "Don't touch him, Patalamon. There has never been a white seal since--since I was born. Perhaps it is old Zaharrof's ghost. He was lost last year in the big gale." "I'm not going near him," said Patalamon. "He's unlucky. Do you really think he is old Zaharrof come back? I owe him for some gulls' eggs." "Don't look at him," said Kerick. "Head off that drove of four-year-olds. The men ought to skin two hundred to-day, but it's the beginning of the season, and they are new to the work. A hundred will do. Quick!" Patalamon rattled a pair of seal's shoulder-bones in front of a herd of holluschickie and they stopped dead, puffing and blowing. Then he stepped near, and the seals began to move, and Kerick headed them inland, and they never tried to get back to their companions. Hundreds and hundreds of thousands of seals watched them being driven, but they went on playing just the same. Kotick was the only one who asked questions, and none of his companions could tell him anything, except that the men always drove seals in that way for six weeks or two months of every year. "I am going to follow," he said, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head as he shuffled along in the wake of the herd. "The white seal is coming after us," cried Patalamon. "That's the first time a seal has ever come to the killing-grounds alone." "Hsh! Don't look behind you," said Kerick. "It _is_ Zaharrof's ghost! I must speak to the priest about this." The distance to the killing-grounds was only half a mile, but it took an hour to cover, because if the seals went too fast Kerick knew that they would get heated and then their fur would come off in patches when they were skinned. So they went on very slowly, past Sea-Lion's Neck, past Webster House, till they came to the Salt House just beyond the sight of the seals on the beach. Kotick followed, panting and wondering. He thought that he was at the world's end, but the roar of the seal nurseries behind him sounded as loud as the roar of a train in a tunnel. Then Kerick sat down on the moss and pulled out a heavy pewter watch and let the drove cool off for thirty minutes, and Kotick could hear the fog-dew dripping from the brim of his cap. Then ten or twelve men, each with an iron-bound club three or four feet long, came up, and Kerick pointed out one or two of the drove that were bitten by their companions or were too hot, and the men kicked those aside with their heavy boots made of the skin of a walrus's throat, and then Kerick said: "Let go!" and then the men clubbed the seals on the head as fast as they could. Ten minutes later little Kotick did not recognize his friends any more, for their skins were ripped off from the nose to the hind flippers--whipped off and thrown down on the ground in a pile. That was enough for Kotick. He turned and galloped (a seal can gallop very swiftly for a short time) back to the sea, his little new mustache bristling with horror. At Sea-Lion's Neck, where the great sea-lions sit on the edge of the surf, he flung himself flipper over-head into the cool water, and rocked there, gasping miserably. "What's here?" said a sea-lion, gruffly; for as a rule the sea-lions keep themselves to themselves. "_Scoochnie! Ochen scoochnie!_" ("I'm lonesome, very lonesome!"), said Kotick. "They're killing _all_ the holluschickie on _all_ the beaches!" The sea-lion turned his head inshore. "Nonsense," he said; "your friends are making as much noise as ever. You must have seen old Kerick polishing off a drove. He's done that for thirty years." "It's horrible," said Kotick, backing water as a wave went over him, and steadying himself with a screw-stroke of his flippers that brought him up all standing within three inches of a jagged edge of rock. "Well done for a yearling!" said the sea-lion, who could appreciate good swimming. "I suppose it _is_ rather awful from your way of looking at it; but if you seals will come here year after year, of course the men get to know of it, and unless you can find an island where no men ever come, you will always be driven." "Isn't there any such island?" began Kotick. "I've followed the _poltoos_ [the halibut] for twenty years, and I can't say I've found it yet. But look here--you seem to have a fondness for talking to your betters; suppose you go to Walrus Islet and talk to Sea Vitch. He may know something. Don't flounce off like that. It's a six-mile swim, and if I were you I should haul out and take a nap first, little one." Kotick thought that that was good advice, so he swam round to his own beach, hauled out, and slept for half an hour, twitching all over, as seals will. Then he headed straight for Walrus Islet, a little low sheet of rocky island almost due northeast from Novastoshnah, all ledges of rock and gulls' nests, where the walrus herded by themselves. He landed close to old Sea Vitch--the big, ugly, bloated, pimpled, fat-necked, long-tusked walrus of the North Pacific, who has no manners except when he is asleep--as he was then, with his hind flippers half in and half out of the surf. "Wake up!" barked Kotick, for the gulls were making a great noise. "Hah! Ho! Hmph! What's that?" said Sea Vitch, and he struck the next walrus a blow with his tusks and waked him up, and the next struck the next, and so on till they were all awake and staring in every direction but the right one. [Illustration: "THEY WERE ALL AWAKE AND STARING IN EVERY DIRECTION BUT THE RIGHT ONE."] "Hi! It's me," said Kotick, bobbing in the surf and looking like a little white slug. "Well! May I be----skinned!" said Sea Vitch, and they all looked at Kotick as you can fancy a club full of drowsy old gentlemen would look at a little boy. Kotick did not care to hear any more about skinning just then; he had seen enough of it; so he called out: "Isn't there any place for seals to go where men don't ever come?" "Go and find out," said Sea Vitch, shutting his eyes. "Run away. We're busy here." Kotick made his dolphin-jump in the air and shouted as loud as he could: "Clam-eater! Clam-eater!" He knew that Sea Vitch never caught a fish in his life, but always rooted for clams and seaweeds; though he pretended to be a very terrible person. Naturally the Chickies and the Gooverooskies and the Epatkas, the Burgomaster Gulls and the Kittiwakes and the Puffins, who are always looking for a chance to be rude, took up the cry, and--so Limmershin told me--for nearly five minutes you could not have heard a gun fired on Walrus Islet. All the population was yelling and screaming: "Clam-eater! _Stareek_ [old man]!" while Sea Vitch rolled from side to side grunting and coughing. "_Now_ will you tell?" said Kotick, all out of breath. "Go and ask Sea Cow," said Sea Vitch. "If he is living still, he'll be able to tell you." "How shall I know Sea Cow when I meet him?" said Kotick, sheering off. "He's the only thing in the sea uglier than Sea Vitch," screamed a burgomaster gull, wheeling under Sea Vitch's nose. "Uglier, and with worse manners! _Stareek!_" Kotick swam back to Novastoshnah, leaving the gulls to scream. There he found that no one sympathized with him in his little attempts to discover a quiet place for the seals. They told him that men had always driven the holluschickie--it was part of the day's work--and that if he did not like to see ugly things he should not have gone to the killing-grounds. But none of the other seals had seen the killing, and that made the difference between him and his friends. Besides, Kotick was a white seal. "What you must do," said old Sea Catch, after he had heard his son's adventures, "is to grow up and be a big seal like your father, and have a nursery on the beach, and then they will leave you alone. In another five years you ought to be able to fight for yourself." Even gentle Matkah, his mother, said: "You will never be able to stop the killing. Go and play in the sea, Kotick." And Kotick went off and danced the Fire-dance with a very heavy little heart. That autumn he left the beach as soon as he could, and set off alone because of a notion in his bullet-head. He was going to find Sea Cow, if there was such a person in the sea, and he was going to find a quiet island with good firm beaches for seals to live on, where men could not get at them. So he explored and explored by himself from the North to the South Pacific, swimming as much as three hundred miles in a day and a night. He met with more adventures than can be told, and narrowly escaped being caught by the Basking Shark, and the Spotted Shark, and the Hammerhead, and he met all the untrustworthy ruffians that loaf up and down the high seas, and the heavy polite fish, and the scarlet-spotted scallops that are moored in one place for hundreds of years, and grow very proud of it; but he never met Sea Cow, and he never found an island that he could fancy. If the beach was good and hard, with a slope behind it for seals to play on, there was always the smoke of a whaler on the horizon, boiling down blubber, and Kotick knew what _that_ meant. Or else he could see that seals had once visited the island and been killed off, and Kotick knew that where men had come once they would come again. He picked up with an old stumpy-tailed albatross, who told him that Kerguelen Island was the very place for peace and quiet, and when Kotick went down there he was all but smashed to pieces against some wicked black cliffs in a heavy sleet-storm with lightning and thunder. Yet as he pulled out against the gale he could see that even there had once been a seal nursery. And it was so in all the other islands that he visited. Limmershin gave a long list of them, for he said that Kotick spent five seasons exploring, with a four months' rest each year at Novastoshnah, where the holluschickie used to make fun of him and his imaginary islands. He went to the Gallapagos, a horrid dry place on the Equator, where he was nearly baked to death; he went to the Georgia Islands, the Orkneys, Emerald Island, Little Nightingale Island, Gough's Island, Bouvet's Island, the Crossets, and even to a little speck of an island south of the Cape of Good Hope. But everywhere the People of the Sea told him the same things. Seals had come to those islands once upon a time, but men had killed them all off. Even when he swam thousands of miles out of the Pacific, and got to a place called Cape Corientes (that was when he was coming back from Gough's Island), he found a few hundred mangy seals on a rock, and they told him that men came there too. That nearly broke his heart, and he headed round the Horn back to his own beaches; and on his way north he hauled out on an island full of green trees, where he found an old, old seal who was dying, and Kotick caught fish for him and told him all his sorrows. "Now," said Kotick, "I am going back to Novastoshnah, and if I am driven to the killing-pens with the holluschickie I shall not care." The old seal said: "Try once more. I am the last of the Lost Rookery of Masafuera, and in the days when men killed us by the hundred thousand there was a story on the beaches that some day a white seal would come out of the north and lead the seal people to a quiet place. I am old and I shall never live to see that day, but others will. Try once more." And Kotick curled up his mustache (it was a beauty), and said: "I am the only white seal that has ever been born on the beaches, and I am the only seal, black or white, who ever thought of looking for new islands." That cheered him immensely; and when he came back to Novastoshnah that summer, Matkah, his mother, begged him to marry and settle down, for he was no longer a holluschick, but a full-grown sea-catch, with a curly white mane on his shoulders, as heavy, as big, and as fierce as his father. "Give me another season," he said. "Remember, Mother, it is always the seventh wave that goes farthest up the beach." Curiously enough, there was another seal who thought that she would put off marrying till the next year, and Kotick danced the Fire-dance with her all down Lukannon Beach the night before he set off on his last exploration. This time he went westward, because he had fallen on the trail of a great shoal of halibut, and he needed at least one hundred pounds of fish a day to keep him in good condition. He chased them till he was tired, and then he curled himself up and went to sleep on the hollows of the ground-swell that sets in to Copper Island. He knew the coast perfectly well, so about midnight, when he felt himself gently bumped on a weed bed, he said: "Hm, tide 's running strong to-night," and turning over under water opened his eyes slowly and stretched. Then he jumped like a cat, for he saw huge things nosing about in the shoal water and browsing on the heavy fringes of the weeds. "By the Great Combers of Magellan!" he said, beneath his mustache. "Who in the Deep Sea are these people?" They were like no walrus, sea-lion, seal, bear, whale, shark, fish, squid, or scallop that Kotick had ever seen before. They were between twenty and thirty feet long, and they had no hind flippers, but a shovel-like tail that looked as if it had been whittled out of wet leather. Their heads were the most foolish-looking things you ever saw, and they balanced on the ends of their tails in deep water when they weren't grazing, bowing solemnly to one another and waving their front flippers as a fat man waves his arm. "Ahem!" said Kotick. "Good sport, gentlemen?" The big things answered by bowing and waving their flippers like the Frog-Footman. When they began feeding again Kotick saw that their upper lip was split into two pieces, that they could twitch apart about a foot and bring together again with a whole bushel of seaweed between the splits. They tucked the stuff into their mouths and chumped solemnly. "Messy style of feeding that," said Kotick. They bowed again, and Kotick began to lose his temper. "Very good," he said. "If you do happen to have an extra joint in your front flipper you needn't show off so. I see you bow gracefully, but I should like to know your names." The split lips moved and twitched, and the glassy green eyes stared; but they did not speak. "Well!" said Kotick, "you're the only people I've ever met uglier than Sea Vitch--and with worse manners." Then he remembered in a flash what the Burgomaster Gull had screamed to him when he was a little yearling at Walrus Islet, and he tumbled backward in the water, for he knew that he had found Sea Cow at last. [Illustration: "HE HAD FOUND SEA COW AT LAST."] The sea cows went on schlooping and grazing, and chumping in the weed, and Kotick asked them questions in every language that he had picked up in his travels; and the Sea People talk nearly as many languages as human beings. But the Sea Cow did not answer, because Sea Cow cannot talk. He has only six bones in his neck where he ought to have seven, and they say under the sea that that prevents him from speaking even to his companions; but, as you know, he has an extra joint in his fore flipper, and by waving it up and down and about he makes what answers to a sort of clumsy telegraphic code. By daylight Kotick's mane was standing on end and his temper was gone where the dead crabs go. Then the Sea Cow began to travel northward very slowly, stopping to hold absurd bowing councils from time to time, and Kotick followed them, saying to himself: "People who are such idiots as these are would have been killed long ago if they hadn't found out some safe island; and what is good enough for the Sea Cow is good enough for the Sea Catch. All the same, I wish they'd hurry." It was weary work for Kotick. The herd never went more than forty or fifty miles a day, and stopped to feed at night, and kept close to the shore all the time; while Kotick swam round them, and over them, and under them, but he could not hurry them up one half-mile. As they went farther north they held a bowing council every few hours, and Kotick nearly bit off his mustache with impatience till he saw that they were following up a warm current of water, and then he respected them more. One night they sank through the shiny water--sank like stones--and, for the first time since he had known them, began to swim quickly. Kotick followed, and the pace astonished him, for he never dreamed that Sea Cow was anything of a swimmer. They headed for a cliff by the shore, a cliff that ran down into deep water, and plunged into a dark hole at the foot of it, twenty fathoms under the sea. It was a long, long swim, and Kotick badly wanted fresh air before he was out of the dark tunnel they led him through. "My wig!" he said, when he rose, gasping and puffing, into open water at the farther end. "It was a long dive, but it was worth it." The sea cows had separated, and were browsing lazily along the edges of the finest beaches that Kotick had ever seen. There were long stretches of smooth worn rock running for miles, exactly fitted to make seal nurseries, and there were playgrounds of hard sand, sloping inland behind them, and there were rollers for seals to dance in, and long grass to roll in, and sand-dunes to climb up and down, and best of all, Kotick knew by the feel of the water, which never deceives a true Sea Catch, that no men had ever come there. The first thing he did was to assure himself that the fishing was good, and then he swam along the beaches and counted up the delightful low sandy islands half hidden in the beautiful rolling fog. Away to the northward out to sea ran a line of bars and shoals and rocks that would never let a ship come within six miles of the beach; and between the islands and the mainland was a stretch of deep water that ran up to the perpendicular cliffs, and somewhere below the cliffs was the mouth of the tunnel. "It's Novastoshnah over again, but ten times better," said Kotick. "Sea Cow must be wiser than I thought. Men can't come down the cliffs, even if there were any men; and the shoals to seaward would knock a ship to splinters. If any place in the sea is safe, this is it." He began to think of the seal he had left behind him, but though he was in a hurry to go back to Novastoshnah, he thoroughly explored the new country, so that he would be able to answer all questions. Then he dived and made sure of the mouth of the tunnel, and raced through to the southward. No one but a sea cow or a seal would have dreamed of there being such a place, and when he looked back at the cliffs even Kotick could hardly believe that he had been under them. He was six days going home, though he was not swimming slowly; and when he hauled out just above Sea-Lion's Neck the first person he met was the seal who had been waiting for him, and she saw by the look in his eyes that he had found his island at last. But the holluschickie and Sea Catch, his father, and all the other seals, laughed at him when he told them what he had discovered, and a young seal about his own age said: "This is all very well, Kotick, but you can't come from no one knows where and order us off like this. Remember we've been fighting for our nurseries, and that's a thing you never did. You preferred prowling about in the sea." The other seals laughed at this, and the young seal began twisting his head from side to side. He had just married that year, and was making a great fuss about it. "I've no nursery to fight for," said Kotick. "I want only to show you all a place where you will be safe. What's the use of fighting?" "Oh, if you're trying to back out, of course I've no more to say," said the young seal, with an ugly chuckle. "Will you come with me if I win?" said Kotick; and a green light came into his eyes, for he was very angry at having to fight at all. "Very good," said the young seal, carelessly. "_If_ you win, I'll come." He had no time to change his mind, for Kotick's head darted out and his teeth sunk in the blubber of the young seal's neck. Then he threw himself back on his haunches and hauled his enemy down the beach, shook him, and knocked him over. Then Kotick roared to the seals: "I've done my best for you these five seasons past. I've found you the island where you'll be safe, but unless your heads are dragged off your silly necks you won't believe. I'm going to teach you now. Look out for yourselves!" Limmershin told me that never in his life--and Limmershin sees ten thousand big seals fighting every year--never in all his little life did he see anything like Kotick's charge into the nurseries. He flung himself at the biggest sea-catch he could find, caught him by the throat, choked him and bumped him and banged him till he grunted for mercy, and then threw him aside and attacked the next. You see, Kotick had never fasted for four months as the big seals did every year, and his deep-sea swimming-trips kept him in perfect condition, and, best of all, he had never fought before. His curly white mane stood up with rage, and his eyes flamed, and his big dogteeth glistened, and he was splendid to look at. Old Sea Catch, his father, saw him tearing past, hauling the grizzled old seals about as though they had been halibut, and upsetting the young bachelors in all directions; and Sea Catch gave one roar and shouted: "He may be a fool, but he is the best fighter on the Beaches. Don't tackle your father, my son! He's with you!" Kotick roared in answer, and old Sea Catch waddled in, his mustache on end, blowing like a locomotive, while Matkah and the seal that was going to marry Kotick cowered down and admired their men-folk. It was a gorgeous fight, for the two fought as long as there was a seal that dared lift up his head, and then they paraded grandly up and down the beach side by side, bellowing. At night, just as the Northern Lights were winking and flashing through the fog, Kotick climbed a bare rock and looked down on the scattered nurseries and the torn and bleeding seals. "Now," he said, "I've taught you your lesson." "My wig!" said old Sea Catch, boosting himself up stiffly, for he was fearfully mauled. "The Killer Whale himself could not have cut them up worse. Son, I'm proud of you, and what's more, _I'll_ come with you to your island--if there is such a place." "Hear you, fat pigs of the sea! Who comes with me to the Sea Cow's tunnel? Answer, or I shall teach you again," roared Kotick. There was a murmur like the ripple of the tide all up and down the beaches. "We will come," said thousands of tired voices. "We will follow Kotick, the White Seal." Then Kotick dropped his head between his shoulders and shut his eyes proudly. He was not a white seal any more, but red from head to tail. All the same he would have scorned to look at or touch one of his wounds. A week later he and his army (nearly ten thousand holluschickie and old seals) went away north to the Sea Cow's tunnel, Kotick leading them, and the seals that stayed at Novastoshnah called them idiots. But next spring when they all met off the fishing-banks of the Pacific, Kotick's seals told such tales of the new beaches beyond Sea Cow's tunnel that more and more seals left Novastoshnah. Of course it was not all done at once, for the seals need a long time to turn things over in their minds, but year by year more seals went away from Novastoshnah, and Lukannon, and the other nurseries, to the quiet, sheltered beaches where Kotick sits all the summer through, getting bigger and fatter and stronger each year, while the holluschickie play round him, in that sea where no man comes. LUKANNON This is the great deep-sea song that all the St. Paul seals sing when they are heading back to their beaches in the summer. It is a sort of very sad seal National Anthem. I met my mates in the morning (and oh, but I am old!) Where roaring on the ledges the summer ground-swell rolled; I heard them lift the chorus that dropped the breakers' song-- The beaches of Lukannon--two million voices strong! _The song of pleasant stations beside the salt lagoons, The song of blowing squadrons that shuffled down the dunes, The song of midnight dances that churned the sea to flame-- The beaches of Lukannon--before the sealers came!_ I met my mates in the morning (I'll never meet them more!); They came and went in legions that darkened all the shore. And through the foam-flecked offing as far as voice could reach We hailed the landing-parties and we sang them up the beach. _The beaches of Lukannon--the winter-wheat so tall-- The dripping, crinkled lichens, and the sea-fog drenching all! The platforms of our playground, all shining smooth and worn! The beaches of Lukannon--the home where we were born!_ I meet my mates in the morning, a broken, scattered band. Men shoot us in the water and club us on the land; Men drive us to the Salt House like silly sheep and tame, And still we sing Lukannon--before the sealers came. _Wheel down, wheel down to southward; oh, Gooverooska go! And tell the Deep-Sea Viceroys the story of our woe; Ere, empty as the shark's egg the tempest flings ashore, The beaches of Lukannon shall know their sons no more!_ "RIKKI-TIKKI-TAVI" At the hole where he went in Red-Eye called to Wrinkle-Skin. Hear what little Red-Eye saith: "Nag, come up and dance with death!" Eye to eye and head to head, (_Keep the measure, Nag._) This shall end when one is dead; (_At thy pleasure, Nag._) Turn for turn and twist for twist-- (_Run and hide thee, Nag._) Hah! The hooded Death has missed! (_Woe betide thee, Nag!_) [Illustration] "RIKKI-TIKKI-TAVI" THIS is the story of the great war that Rikki-tikki-tavi fought single-handed, through the bath-rooms of the big bungalow in Segowlee cantonment. Darzee, the tailor-bird, helped him, and Chuchundra, the muskrat, who never comes out into the middle of the floor, but always creeps round by the wall, gave him advice; but Rikki-tikki did the real fighting. He was a mongoose, rather like a little cat in his fur and his tail, but quite like a weasel in his head and his habits. His eyes and the end of his restless nose were pink; he could scratch himself anywhere he pleased, with any leg, front or back, that he chose to use; he could fluff up his tail till it looked like a bottle-brush, and his war-cry as he scuttled through the long grass, was: "_Rikk-tikk-tikki-tikki-tchk!_" One day, a high summer flood washed him out of the burrow where he lived with his father and mother, and carried him, kicking and clucking, down a roadside ditch. He found a little wisp of grass floating there, and clung to it till he lost his senses. When he revived, he was lying in the hot sun on the middle of a garden path, very draggled indeed, and a small boy was saying: "Here's a dead mongoose. Let's have a funeral." "No," said his mother; "let's take him in and dry him. Perhaps he isn't really dead." They took him into the house, and a big man picked him up between his finger and thumb and said he was not dead but half choked; so they wrapped him in cotton-wool, and warmed him, and he opened his eyes and sneezed. "Now," said the big man (he was an Englishman who had just moved into the bungalow); "don't frighten him, and we'll see what he'll do." It is the hardest thing in the world to frighten a mongoose, because he is eaten up from nose to tail with curiosity. The motto of all the mongoose family is, "Run and find out"; and Rikki-tikki was a true mongoose. He looked at the cotton-wool, decided that it was not good to eat, ran all round the table, sat up and put his fur in order, scratched himself, and jumped on the small boy's shoulder. "Don't be frightened, Teddy," said his father. "That's his way of making friends." "Ouch! He's tickling under my chin," said Teddy. [Illustration: "RIKKI-TIKKI LOOKED DOWN BETWEEN THE BOY'S COLLAR AND NECK."] Rikki-tikki looked down between the boy's collar and neck, snuffed at his ear, and climbed down to the floor, where he sat rubbing his nose. "Good gracious," said Teddy's mother, "and that's a wild creature! I suppose he's so tame because we've been kind to him." "All mongooses are like that," said her husband. "If Teddy doesn't pick him up by the tail, or try to put him in a cage, he'll run in and out of the house all day long. Let's give him something to eat." They gave him a little piece of raw meat. Rikki-tikki liked it immensely, and when it was finished he went out into the veranda and sat in the sunshine and fluffed up his fur to make it dry to the roots. Then he felt better. "There are more things to find out about in this house," he said to himself, "than all my family could find out in all their lives. I shall certainly stay and find out." [Illustration: "HE PUT HIS NOSE INTO THE INK."] He spent all that day roaming over the house. He nearly drowned himself in the bath-tubs, put his nose into the ink on a writing-table, and burned it on the end of the big man's cigar, for he climbed up in the big man's lap to see how writing was done. At nightfall he ran into Teddy's nursery to watch how kerosene lamps were lighted, and when Teddy went to bed Rikki-tikki climbed up too; but he was a restless companion, because he had to get up and attend to every noise all through the night, and find out what made it. Teddy's mother and father came in, the last thing, to look at their boy, and Rikki-tikki was awake on the pillow. "I don't like that," said Teddy's mother; "he may bite the child." "He'll do no such thing," said the father. "Teddy's safer with that little beast than if he had a bloodhound to watch him. If a snake came into the nursery now--" [Illustration: "RIKKI-TIKKI WAS AWAKE ON THE PILLOW."] But Teddy's mother wouldn't think of anything so awful. Early in the morning Rikki-tikki came to early breakfast in the veranda riding on Teddy's shoulder, and they gave him banana and some boiled egg; and he sat on all their laps one after the other, because every well-brought-up mongoose always hopes to be a house-mongoose some day and have rooms to run about in, and Rikki-tikki's mother (she used to live in the General's house at Segowlee) had carefully told Rikki what to do if ever he came across white men. [Illustration: "HE CAME TO BREAKFAST RIDING ON TEDDY'S SHOULDER."] Then Rikki-tikki went out into the garden to see what was to be seen. It was a large garden, only half cultivated, with bushes as big as summer-houses of Marshal Niel roses, lime and orange trees, clumps of bamboos, and thickets of high grass. Rikki-tikki licked his lips. "This is a splendid hunting-ground," he said, and his tail grew bottle-brushy at the thought of it, and he scuttled up and down the garden, snuffing here and there till he heard very sorrowful voices in a thorn-bush. It was Darzee, the tailor-bird, and his wife. They had made a beautiful nest by pulling two big leaves together and stitching them up the edges with fibers, and had filled the hollow with cotton and downy fluff. The nest swayed to and fro, as they sat on the rim and cried. "What is the matter?" asked Rikki-tikki. [Illustration: "'WE ARE VERY MISERABLE,' SAID DARZEE."] "We are very miserable," said Darzee. "One of our babies fell out of the nest yesterday and Nag ate him." "H'm!" said Rikki-tikki," that is very sad--but I am a stranger here. Who is Nag?" Darzee and his wife only cowered down in the nest without answering, for from the thick grass at the foot of the bush there came a low hiss--a horrid cold sound that made Rikki-tikki jump back two clear feet. Then inch by inch out of the grass rose up the head and spread hood of Nag, the big black cobra, and he was five feet long from tongue to tail. When he had lifted one-third of himself clear of the ground, he stayed balancing to and fro exactly as a dandelion-tuft balances in the wind, and he looked at Rikki-tikki with the wicked snake's eyes that never change their expression, whatever the snake may be thinking of. "Who is Nag?" he said, "_I_ am Nag. The great god Brahm put his mark upon all our people when the first cobra spread his hood to keep the sun off Brahm as he slept. Look, and be afraid!" [Illustration: "'I AM NAG,' SAID THE COBRA: 'LOOK, AND BE AFRAID!' BUT AT THE BOTTOM OF HIS COLD HEART HE WAS AFRAID."] He spread out his hood more than ever, and Rikki-tikki saw the spectacle-mark on the back of it that looks exactly like the eye part of a hook-and-eye fastening. He was afraid for the minute; but it is impossible for a mongoose to stay frightened for any length of time, and though Rikki-tikki had never met a live cobra before, his mother had fed him on dead ones, and he knew that all a grown mongoose's business in life was to fight and eat snakes. Nag knew that too, and at the bottom of his cold heart he was afraid. "Well," said Rikki-tikki, and his tail began to fluff up again, "marks or no marks, do you think it is right for you to eat fledglings out of a nest?" Nag was thinking to himself, and watching the least little movement in the grass behind Rikki-tikki. He knew that mongooses in the garden meant death sooner or later for him and his family; but he wanted to get Rikki-tikki off his guard. So he dropped his head a little, and put it on one side. "Let us talk," he said. "You eat eggs. Why should not I eat birds?" "Behind you! Look behind you!" sang Darzee. Rikki-tikki knew better than to waste time in staring. He jumped up in the air as high as he could go, and just under him whizzed by the head of Nagaina, Nag's wicked wife. She had crept up behind him as he was talking, to make an end of him; and he heard her savage hiss as the stroke missed. He came down almost across her back, and if he had been an old mongoose he would have known that then was the time to break her back with one bite; but he was afraid of the terrible lashing return-stroke of the cobra. He bit, indeed, but did not bite long enough, and he jumped clear of the whisking tail, leaving Nagaina torn and angry. [Illustration: "HE JUMPED UP IN THE AIR, AND JUST UNDER HIM WHIZZED BY THE HEAD OF NAGAINA."] "Wicked, wicked Darzee!" said Nag, lashing up as high as he could reach toward the nest in the thorn-bush; but Darzee had built it out of reach of snakes, and it only swayed to and fro. Rikki-tikki felt his eyes growing red and hot (when a mongoose's eyes grow red, he is angry), and he sat back on his tail and hind legs like a little kangaroo, and looked all around him, and chattered with rage. But Nag and Nagaina had disappeared into the grass. When a snake misses its stroke, it never says anything or gives any sign of what it means to do next. Rikki-tikki did not care to follow them, for he did not feel sure that he could manage two snakes at once. So he trotted off to the gravel path near the house, and sat down to think. It was a serious matter for him. If you read the old books of natural history, you will find they say that when the mongoose fights the snake and happens to get bitten, he runs off and eats some herb that cures him. That is not true. The victory is only a matter of quickness of eye and quickness of foot,--snake's blow against mongoose's jump,--and as no eye can follow the motion of a snake's head when it strikes, that makes things much more wonderful than any magic herb. Rikki-tikki knew he was a young mongoose, and it made him all the more pleased to think that he had managed to escape a blow from behind. It gave him confidence in himself, and when Teddy came running down the path, Rikki-tikki was ready to be petted. But just as Teddy was stooping, something flinched a little in the dust, and a tiny voice said: "Be careful. I am death!" It was Karait, the dusty brown snakeling that lies for choice on the dusty earth; and his bite is as dangerous as the cobra's. But he is so small that nobody thinks of him, and so he does the more harm to people. Rikki-tikki's eyes grew red again, and he danced up to Karait with the peculiar rocking, swaying motion that he had inherited from his family. It looks very funny, but it is so perfectly balanced a gait that you can fly off from it at any angle you please; and in dealing with snakes this is an advantage. If Rikki-tikki had only known, he was doing a much more dangerous thing than fighting Nag, for Karait is so small, and can turn so quickly, that unless Rikki bit him close to the back of the head, he would get the return-stroke in his eye or lip. But Rikki did not know: his eyes were all red, and he rocked back and forth, looking for a good place to hold. Karait struck out. Rikki jumped sideways and tried to run in, but the wicked little dusty gray head lashed within a fraction of his shoulder, and he had to jump over the body, and the head followed his heels close. Teddy shouted to the house: "Oh, look here! Our mongoose is killing a snake"; and Rikki-tikki heard a scream from Teddy's mother. His father ran out with a stick, but by the time he came up, Karait had lunged out once too far, and Rikki-tikki had sprung, jumped on the snake's back, dropped his head far between his fore legs, bitten as high up the back as he could get hold, and rolled away. That bite paralyzed Karait, and Rikki-tikki was just going to eat him up from the tail, after the custom of his family at dinner, when he remembered that a full meal makes a slow mongoose, and if he wanted all his strength and quickness ready, he must keep himself thin. He went away for a dust-bath under the castor-oil bushes, while Teddy's father beat the dead Karait. "What is the use of that?" thought Rikki-tikki. "I have settled it all"; and then Teddy's mother picked him up from the dust and hugged him, crying that he had saved Teddy from death, and Teddy's father said that he was a providence, and Teddy looked on with big scared eyes. Rikki-Tikki was rather amused at all the fuss, which, of course, he did not understand. Teddy's mother might just as well have petted Teddy for playing in the dust. Rikki was thoroughly enjoying himself. That night, at dinner, walking to and fro among the wine-glasses on the table, he could have stuffed himself three times over with nice things; but he remembered Nag and Nagaina, and though it was very pleasant to be patted and petted by Teddy's mother, and to sit on Teddy's shoulder, his eyes would get red from time to time, and he would go off into his long war-cry of "_Rikk-tikk-tikki-tikki-tchk!_" Teddy carried him off to bed, and insisted on Rikki-tikki sleeping under his chin. Rikki-tikki was too well bred to bite or scratch, but as soon as Teddy was asleep he went off for his nightly walk round the house, and in the dark he ran up against Chuchundra, the muskrat, creeping round by the wall. Chuchundra is a broken-hearted little beast. He whimpers and cheeps all the night, trying to make up his mind to run into the middle of the room, but he never gets there. [Illustration: "IN THE DARK HE RAN UP AGAINST CHUCHUNDRA, THE MUSKRAT."] "Don't kill me," said Chuchundra, almost weeping. "Rikki-tikki, don't kill me." "Do you think a snake-killer kills muskrats?" said Rikki-tikki scornfully. "Those who kill snakes get killed by snakes," said Chuchundra, more sorrowfully than ever. "And how am I to be sure that Nag won't mistake me for you some dark night?" "There's not the least danger," said Rikki-tikki; "but Nag is in the garden, and I know you don't go there." "My cousin Chua, the rat, told me--" said Chuchundra, and then he stopped. "Told you what?" "H'sh! Nag is everywhere, Rikki-tikki. You should have talked to Chua in the garden." "I didn't--so you must tell me. Quick, Chuchundra, or I'll bite you!" Chuchundra sat down and cried till the tears rolled off his whiskers. "I am a very poor man," he sobbed. "I never had spirit enough to run out into the middle of the room. H'sh! I mustn't tell you anything. Can't you _hear_, Rikki-tikki?" Rikki-tikki listened. The house was as still as still, but he thought he could just catch the faintest _scratch-scratch_ in the world,--a noise as faint as that of a wasp walking on a window-pane,--the dry scratch of a snake's scales on brickwork. "That's Nag or Nagaina," he said to himself; "and he is crawling into the bath-room sluice. You're right, Chuchundra; I should have talked to Chua." He stole off to Teddy's bath-room, but there was nothing there, and then to Teddy's mother's bath-room. At the bottom of the smooth plaster wall there was a brick pulled out to make a sluice for the bath-water, and as Rikki-tikki stole in by the masonry curb where the bath is put, he heard Nag and Nagaina whispering together outside in the moonlight. "When the house is emptied of people," said Nagaina to her husband, "_he_ will have to go away, and then the garden will be our own again. Go in quietly, and remember that the big man who killed Karait is the first one to bite. Then come out and tell me, and we will hunt for Rikki-tikki together." "But are you sure that there is anything to be gained by killing the people?" said Nag. "Everything. When there were no people in the bungalow, did we have any mongoose in the garden? So long as the bungalow is empty, we are king and queen of the garden; and remember that as soon as our eggs in the melon-bed hatch (as they may to-morrow), our children will need room and quiet." "I had not thought of that," said Nag. "I will go, but there is no need that we should hunt for Rikki-tikki afterward. I will kill the big man and his wife, and the child if I can, and come away quietly. Then the bungalow will be empty, and Rikki-tikki will go." Rikki-tikki tingled all over with rage and hatred at this, and then Nag's head came through the sluice, and his five feet of cold body followed it. Angry as he was, Rikki-tikki was very frightened as he saw the size of the big cobra. Nag coiled himself up, raised his head, and looked into the bath-room in the dark, and Rikki could see his eyes glitter. "Now, if I kill him here, Nagaina will know; and if I fight him on the open floor, the odds are in his favor. What am I to do?" said Rikki-tikki-tavi. Nag waved to and fro, and then Rikki-tikki heard him drinking from the biggest water-jar that was used to fill the bath. "That is good," said the snake. "Now, when Karait was killed, the big man had a stick. He may have that stick still, but when he comes in to bathe in the morning he will not have a stick. I shall wait here till he comes. Nagaina--do you hear me?--I shall wait here in the cool till daytime." There was no answer from outside, so Rikki-tikki knew Nagaina had gone away. Nag coiled himself down, coil by coil, round the bulge at the bottom of the water-jar, and Rikki-tikki stayed still as death. After an hour he began to move, muscle by muscle, toward the jar. Nag was asleep, and Rikki-tikki looked at his big back, wondering which would be the best place for a good hold. "If I don't break his back at the first jump," said Rikki, "he can still fight; and if he fights--O Rikki!" He looked at the thickness of the neck below the hood, but that was too much for him; and a bite near the tail would only make Nag savage. "It must be the head," he said at last: "the head above the hood; and, when I am once there, I must not let go." Then he jumped. The head was lying a little clear of the water-jar, under the curve of it; and, as his teeth met, Rikki braced his back against the bulge of the red earthenware to hold down the head. This gave him just one second's purchase, and he made the most of it. Then he was battered to and fro as a rat is shaken by a dog--to and fro on the floor, up and down, and round in great circles; but his eyes were red, and he held on as the body cartwhipped over the floor, upsetting the tin dipper and the soap-dish and the flesh-brush, and banged against the tin side of the bath. As he held he closed his jaws tighter and tighter, for he made sure he would be banged to death, and, for the honor of his family, he preferred to be found with his teeth locked. He was dizzy, aching, and felt shaken to pieces when something went off like a thunderclap just behind him; a hot wind knocked him senseless and red fire singed his fur. The big man had been wakened by the noise, and had fired both barrels of a shot-gun into Nag just behind the hood. [Illustration: "THEN RIKKI-TIKKI WAS BATTERED TO AND FRO AS A RAT IS SHAKEN BY A DOG."] Rikki-tikki held on with his eyes shut, for now he was quite sure he was dead; but the head did not move, and the big man picked him up and said: "It's the mongoose again, Alice; the little chap has saved _our_ lives now." Then Teddy's mother came in with a very white face, and saw what was left of Nag, and Rikki-tikki dragged himself to Teddy's bedroom and spent half the rest of the night shaking himself tenderly to find out whether he really was broken into forty pieces, as he fancied. When morning came he was very stiff, but well pleased with his doings. "Now I have Nagaina to settle with, and she will be worse than five Nags, and there's no knowing when the eggs she spoke of will hatch. Goodness! I must go and see Darzee," he said. Without waiting for breakfast, Rikki-tikki ran to the thorn-bush where Darzee was singing a song of triumph at the top of his voice. The news of Nag's death was all over the garden, for the sweeper had thrown the body on the rubbish-heap. "Oh, you stupid tuft of feathers!" said Rikki-tikki, angrily. "Is this the time to sing?" "Nag is dead--is dead--is dead!" sang Darzee. "The valiant Rikki-tikki caught him by the head and held fast. The big man brought the bang-stick and Nag fell in two pieces! He will never eat my babies again." "All that's true enough; but where's Nagaina?" said Rikki-tikki, looking carefully round him. "Nagaina came to the bath-room sluice and called for Nag," Darzee went on; "and Nag came out on the end of a stick--the sweeper picked him up on the end of a stick and threw him upon the rubbish-heap. Let us sing about the great, the red-eyed Rikki-tikki!" and Darzee filled his throat and sang. "If I could get up to your nest, I'd roll all your babies out!" said Rikki-tikki. "You don't know when to do the right thing at the right time. You're safe enough in your nest there, but it's war for me down here. Stop singing a minute, Darzee." "For the great, the beautiful Rikki-tikki's sake I will stop," said Darzee. "What is it, O Killer of the terrible Nag!" "Where is Nagaina, for the third time?" "On the rubbish-heap by the stables, mourning for Nag. Great is Rikki-tikki with the white teeth." "Bother my white teeth! Have you ever heard where she keeps her eggs?" "In the melon-bed, on the end nearest the wall, where the sun strikes nearly all day. She had them there weeks ago." "And you never thought it worth while to tell me? The end nearest the wall, you said?" "Rikki-tikki, you are not going to eat her eggs?" "Not eat exactly; no. Darzee, if you have a grain of sense you will fly off to the stables and pretend that your wing is broken, and let Nagaina chase you away to this bush? I must get to the melon-bed, and if I went there now she'd see me." Darzee was a feather-brained little fellow who could never hold more than one idea at a time in his head; and just because he knew that Nagaina's children were born in eggs like his own, he didn't think at first that it was fair to kill them. But his wife was a sensible bird, and she knew that cobra's eggs meant young cobras later on; so she flew off from the nest, and left Darzee to keep the babies warm, and continue his song about the death of Nag. Darzee was very like a man in some ways. She fluttered in front of Nagaina by the rubbish-heap, and cried out, "Oh, my wing is broken! The boy in the house threw a stone at me and broke it." Then she fluttered more desperately than ever. [Illustration: DARZEE'S WIFE PRETENDS TO HAVE BROKEN A WING.] Nagaina lifted up her head and hissed, "You warned Rikki-tikki when I would have killed him. Indeed and truly, you've chosen a bad place to be lame in." And she moved toward Darzee's wife, slipping along over the dust. "The boy broke it with a stone!" shrieked Darzee's wife. "Well! It may be some consolation to you when you're dead to know that I shall settle accounts with the boy. My husband lies on the rubbish-heap this morning, but before night the boy in the house will lie very still. What is the use of running away? I am sure to catch you. Little fool, look at me!" Darzee's wife knew better than to do _that_, for a bird who looks at a snake's eyes gets so frightened that she cannot move. Darzee's wife fluttered on, piping sorrowfully, and never leaving the ground, and Nagaina quickened her pace. Rikki-tikki heard them going up the path from the stables, and he raced for the end of the melon-patch near the wall. There, in the warm litter about the melons, very cunningly hidden, he found twenty-five eggs, about the size of a bantam's eggs, but with whitish skin instead of shell. "I was not a day too soon," he said; for he could see the baby cobras curled up inside the skin, and he knew that the minute they were hatched they could each kill a man or a mongoose. He bit off the tops of the eggs as fast as he could, taking care to crush the young cobras, and turned over the litter from time to time to see whether he had missed any. At last there were only three eggs left, and Rikki-tikki began to chuckle to himself, when he heard Darzee's wife screaming: "Rikki-tikki, I led Nagaina toward the house, and she has gone into the veranda, and--oh, come quickly--she means killing!" Rikki-tikki smashed two eggs, and tumbled backward down the melon-bed with the third egg in his mouth, and scuttled to the veranda as hard as he could put foot to the ground. Teddy and his mother and father were there at early breakfast; but Rikki-tikki saw that they were not eating anything. They sat stone-still, and their faces were white. Nagaina was coiled up on the matting by Teddy's chair, within easy striking distance of Teddy's bare leg, and she was swaying to and fro singing a song of triumph. "Son of the big man that killed Nag," she hissed, "stay still. I am not ready yet. Wait a little. Keep very still, all you three. If you move I strike, and if you do not move I strike. Oh, foolish people, who killed my Nag!" Teddy's eyes were fixed on his father, and all his father could do was to whisper, "Sit still, Teddy. You mustn't move. Teddy, keep still." Then Rikki-tikki came up and cried: "Turn round, Nagaina; turn and fight!" "All in good time," said she, without moving her eyes. "I will settle my account with _you_ presently. Look at your friends, Rikki-tikki. They are still and white; they are afraid. They dare not move, and if you come a step nearer I strike." "Look at your eggs," said Rikki-tikki, "in the melon-bed near the wall. Go and look, Nagaina." The big snake turned half round, and saw the egg on the veranda. "Ah-h! Give it to me," she said. Rikki-tikki put his paws one on each side of the egg, and his eyes were blood-red. "What price for a snake's egg? For a young cobra? For a young king-cobra? For the last--the very last of the brood? The ants are eating all the others down by the melon-bed." Nagaina spun clear round, forgetting everything for the sake of the one egg; and Rikki-tikki saw Teddy's father shoot out a big hand, catch Teddy by the shoulder, and drag him across the little table with the tea-cups, safe and out of reach of Nagaina. "Tricked! Tricked! Tricked! _Rikk-tck-tck!_" chuckled Rikki-tikki. "The boy is safe, and it was I--I--I that caught Nag by the hood last night in the bath-room." Then he began to jump up and down, all four feet together, his head close to the floor. "He threw me to and fro, but he could not shake me off. He was dead before the big man blew him in two. I did it. _Rikki-tikki-tck-tck!_ Come then, Nagaina. Come and fight with me. You shall not be a widow long." Nagaina saw that she had lost her chance of killing Teddy, and the egg lay between Rikki-tikki's paws. "Give me the egg, Rikki-tikki. Give me the last of my eggs, and I will go away and never come back," she said, lowering her hood. "Yes, you will go away, and you will never come back; for you will go to the rubbish-heap with Nag. Fight, widow! The big man has gone for his gun! Fight!" Rikki-tikki was bounding all round Nagaina, keeping just out of reach of her stroke, his little eyes like hot coals. Nagaina gathered herself together, and flung out at him. Rikki-tikki jumped up and backward. Again and again and again she struck, and each time her head came with a whack on the matting of the veranda and she gathered herself together like a watch-spring. Then Rikki-tikki danced in a circle to get behind her, and Nagaina spun round to keep her head to his head, so that the rustle of her tail on the matting sounded like dry leaves blown along by the wind. He had forgotten the egg. It still lay on the veranda, and Nagaina came nearer and nearer to it, till at last, while Rikki-tikki was drawing breath, she caught it in her mouth, turned to the veranda steps, and flew like an arrow down the path, with Rikki-tikki behind her. When the cobra runs for her life, she goes like a whiplash flicked across a horse's neck. [Illustration: "NAGAINA FLEW DOWN THE PATH, WITH RIKKI-TIKKI BEHIND HER."] Rikki-tikki knew that he must catch her, or all the trouble would begin again. She headed straight for the long grass by the thorn-bush, and as he was running Rikki-tikki heard Darzee still singing his foolish little song of triumph. But Darzee's wife was wiser. She flew off her nest as Nagaina came along, and flapped her wings about Nagaina's head. If Darzee had helped they might have turned her; but Nagaina only lowered her hood and went on. Still, the instant's delay brought Rikki-tikki up to her, and as she plunged into the rat-hole where she and Nag used to live, his little white teeth were clenched on her tail, and he went down with her--and very few mongooses, however wise and old they may be, care to follow a cobra into its hole. It was dark in the hole; and Rikki-tikki never knew when it might open out and give Nagaina room to turn and strike at him. He held on savagely, and struck out his feet to act as brakes on the dark slope of the hot, moist earth. Then the grass by the mouth of the hole stopped waving, and Darzee said: "It is all over with Rikki-tikki! We must sing his death-song. Valiant Rikki-tikki is dead! For Nagaina will surely kill him underground." So he sang a very mournful song that he made up all on the spur of the minute, and just as he got to the most touching part the grass quivered again, and Rikki-tikki, covered with dirt, dragged himself out of the hole leg by leg, licking his whiskers. Darzee stopped with a little shout. Rikki-tikki shook some of the dust out of his fur and sneezed. "It is all over," he said. "The widow will never come out again." And the red ants that live between the grass stems heard him, and began to troop down one after another to see if he had spoken the truth. [Illustration: "IT IS ALL OVER."] Rikki-tikki curled himself up in the grass and slept where he was--slept and slept till it was late in the afternoon, for he had done a hard day's work. "Now," he said, when he awoke, "I will go back to the house. Tell the Coppersmith, Darzee, and he will tell the garden that Nagaina is dead." The Coppersmith is a bird who makes a noise exactly like the beating of a little hammer on a copper pot; and the reason he is always making it is because he is the town-crier to every Indian garden, and tells all the news to everybody who cares to listen. As Rikki-tikki went up the path, he heard his "attention" notes like a tiny dinner-gong; and then the steady "_Ding-dong-tock!_ Nag is dead--_dong!_ Nagaina is dead! _Ding-dong-tock!_" That set all the birds in the garden singing, and the frogs croaking; for Nag and Nagaina used to eat frogs as well as little birds. When Rikki got to the house, Teddy and Teddy's mother (she looked very white still, for she had been fainting) and Teddy's father came out and almost cried over him; and that night he ate all that was given him till he could eat no more, and went to bed on Teddy's shoulder, where Teddy's mother saw him when she came to look late at night. "He saved our lives and Teddy's life," she said to her husband. "Just think, he saved all our lives." Rikki-tikki woke up with a jump, for all the mongooses are light sleepers. "Oh, it's you," said he. "What are you bothering for? All the cobras are dead; and if they weren't, I'm here." Rikki-tikki had a right to be proud of himself; but he did not grow too proud, and he kept that garden as a mongoose should keep it, with tooth and jump and spring and bite, till never a cobra dared show its head inside the walls. DARZEE'S CHAUNT (SUNG IN HONOR OF RIKKI-TIKKI-TAVI) Singer and tailor am I-- Doubled the joys that I know-- Proud of my lilt through the sky, Proud of the house that I sew-- Over and under, so weave I my music--so weave I the house that I sew. Sing to your fledglings again, Mother, oh lift up your head! Evil that plagued us is slain, Death in the garden lies dead. Terror that hid in the roses is impotent--flung on the dung-hill and dead! Who hath delivered us, who? Tell me his nest and his name. Rikki, the valiant, the true, Tikki, with eyeballs of flame. Rik-tikki-tikki, the ivory-fanged, the hunter with eyeballs of flame. Give him the Thanks of the Birds, Bowing with tail-feathers spread! Praise him with nightingale words-- Nay, I will praise him instead. Hear! I will sing you the praise of the bottle-tailed Rikki, with eyeballs of red! (_Here Rikki-tikki interrupted, and the rest of the song is lost._) TOOMAI OF THE ELEPHANTS I will remember what I was, I am sick of rope and chain-- I will remember my old strength and all my forest affairs. I will not sell my back to man for a bundle of sugar-cane, I will go out to my own kind, and the wood-folk in their lairs. I will go out until the day, until the morning break, Out to the winds' untainted kiss, the waters' clean caress: I will forget my ankle-ring and snap my picket-stake. I will revisit my lost loves, and playmates masterless! [Illustration] TOOMAI OF THE ELEPHANTS KALA NAG, which means Black Snake, had served the Indian Government in every way that an elephant could serve it for forty-seven years, and as he was fully twenty years old when he was caught, that makes him nearly seventy--a ripe age for an elephant. He remembered pushing, with a big leather pad on his forehead, at a gun stuck in deep mud, and that was before the Afghan war of 1842, and he had not then come to his full strength. His mother, Radha Pyari,--Radha the darling,--who had been caught in the same drive with Kala Nag, told him, before his little milk tusks had dropped out, that elephants who were afraid always got hurt: and Kala Nag knew that that advice was good, for the first time that he saw a shell burst he backed, screaming, into a stand of piled rifles, and the bayonets pricked him in all his softest places. So, before he was twenty-five, he gave up being afraid, and so he was the best-loved and the best-looked-after elephant in the service of the Government of India. He had carried tents, twelve hundred pounds' weight of tents, on the march in Upper India: he had been hoisted into a ship at the end of a steam-crane and taken for days across the water, and made to carry a mortar on his back in a strange and rocky country very far from India, and had seen the Emperor Theodore lying dead in Magdala, and had come back again in the steamer entitled, so the soldiers said, to the Abyssinian war medal. He had seen his fellow-elephants die of cold and epilepsy and starvation and sunstroke up at a place called Ali Musjid, ten years later; and afterward he had been sent down thousands of miles south to haul and pile big baulks of teak in the timber-yards at Moulmein. There he had half killed an insubordinate young elephant who was shirking his fair share of the work. [Illustration: "KALA NAG WAS THE BEST-LOVED ELEPHANT IN THE SERVICE."] After that he was taken off timber-hauling, and employed, with a few score other elephants who were trained to the business, in helping to catch wild elephants among the Garo hills. Elephants are very strictly preserved by the Indian Government. There is one whole department which does nothing else but hunt them, and catch them, and break them in, and send them up and down the country as they are needed for work. Kala Nag stood ten fair feet at the shoulders, and his tusks had been cut off short at five feet, and bound round the ends, to prevent them splitting, with bands of copper; but he could do more with those stumps than any untrained elephant could do with the real sharpened ones. When, after weeks and weeks of cautious driving of scattered elephants across the hills, the forty or fifty wild monsters were driven into the last stockade, and the big drop-gate, made of tree-trunks lashed together, jarred down behind them, Kala Nag, at the word of command, would go into that flaring, trumpeting pandemonium (generally at night, when the flicker of the torches made it difficult to judge distances), and, picking out the biggest and wildest tusker of the mob, would hammer him and hustle him into quiet while the men on the backs of the other elephants roped and tied the smaller ones. There was nothing in the way of fighting that Kala Nag, the old wise Black Snake, did not know, for he had stood up more than once in his time to the charge of the wounded tiger, and, curling up his soft trunk to be out of harm's way, had knocked the springing brute sideways in mid-air with a quick sickle-cut of his head, that he had invented all by himself; had knocked him over, and kneeled upon him with his huge knees till the life went out with a gasp and a howl, and there was only a fluffy striped thing on the ground for Kala Nag to pull by the tail. "Yes," said Big Toomai, his driver, the son of Black Toomai who had taken him to Abyssinia, and grandson of Toomai of the Elephants who had seen him caught, "there is nothing that the Black Snake fears except me. He has seen three generations of us feed him and groom him, and he will live to see four." "He is afraid of _me_ also," said Little Toomai, standing up to his full height of four feet, with only one rag upon him. He was ten years old, the eldest son of Big Toomai, and, according to custom, he would take his father's place on Kala Nag's neck when he grew up, and would handle the heavy iron _ankus_, the elephant-goad that had been worn smooth by his father, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather. He knew what he was talking of; for he had been born under Kala Nag's shadow, had played with the end of his trunk before he could walk, had taken him down to water as soon as he could walk, and Kala Nag would no more have dreamed of disobeying his shrill little orders than he would have dreamed of killing him on that day when Big Toomai carried the little brown baby under Kala Nag's tusks, and told him to salute his master that was to be. [Illustration: "'HE IS AFRAID OF ME,' SAID LITTLE TOOMAI, AND HE MADE KALA NAG LIFT UP HIS FEET ONE AFTER THE OTHER."] "Yes," said Little Toomai, "he is afraid of _me_," and he took long strides up to Kala Nag, called him a fat old pig, and made him lift up his feet one after the other. "Wah!" said Little Toomai, "thou art a big elephant," and he wagged his fluffy head, quoting his father. "The Government may pay for elephants, but they belong to us mahouts. When thou art old, Kala Nag, there will come some rich Rajah, and he will buy thee from the Government, on account of thy size and thy manners, and then thou wilt have nothing to do but to carry gold earrings in thy ears, and a gold howdah on thy back, and a red cloth covered with gold on thy sides, and walk at the head of the processions of the King. Then I shall sit on thy neck, O Kala Nag, with a silver _ankus_, and men will run before us with golden sticks, crying, 'Room for the King's elephant!' That will be good, Kala Nag, but not so good as this hunting in the jungles." "Umph!" said Big Toomai. "Thou art a boy, and as wild as a buffalo-calf. This running up and down among the hills is not the best Government service. I am getting old, and I do not love wild elephants, Give me brick elephant-lines, one stall to each elephant, and big stumps to tie them to safely, and flat, broad roads to exercise upon, instead of this come-and-go camping. Aha, the Cawnpore barracks were good. There was a bazaar close by, and only three hours' work a day." Little Toomai remembered the Cawnpore elephant-lines and said nothing. He very much preferred the camp life, and hated those broad, flat roads, with the daily grubbing for grass in the forage-reserve, and the long hours when there was nothing to do except to watch Kala Nag fidgeting in his pickets. What Little Toomai liked was to scramble up bridle-paths that only an elephant could take; the dip into the valley below; the glimpses of the wild elephants browsing miles away; the rush of the frightened pig and peacock under Kala Nag's feet; the blinding warm rains, when all the hills and valleys smoked; the beautiful misty mornings when nobody knew where they would camp that night; the steady, cautious drive of the wild elephants, and the mad rush and blaze and hullaballoo of the last night's drive, when the elephants poured into the stockade like boulders in a landslide, found that they could not get out, and flung themselves at the heavy posts only to be driven back by yells and flaring torches and volleys of blank cartridge. [Illustration: "HE WOULD GET HIS TORCH AND WAVE IT, AND YELL WITH THE BEST."] Even a little boy could be of use there, and Toomai was as useful as three boys. He would get his torch and wave it, and yell with the best. But the really good time came when the driving out began, and the Keddah, that is, the stockade, looked like a picture of the end of the world, and men had to make signs to one another, because they could not hear themselves speak. Then Little Toomai would climb up to the top of one of the quivering stockade-posts, his sun-bleached brown hair flying loose all over his shoulders, and he looking like a goblin in the torch-light; and as soon as there was a lull you could hear his high-pitched yells of encouragement to Kala Nag, above the trumpeting and crashing, and snapping of ropes, and groans of the tethered elephants. "_Maîl, maîl, Kala Nag!_ (Go on, go on, Black Snake!) _Dant do!_ (Give him the tusk!) _Somalo! Somalo!_ (Careful, careful!) _Maro! Mar!_ (Hit him, hit him!) Mind the post! _Arre! Arre! Hai! Yai! Kya-a-ah!_" he would shout, and the big fight between Kala Nag and the wild elephant would sway to and fro across the Keddah, and the old elephant-catchers would wipe the sweat out of their eyes, and find time to nod to Little Toomai wriggling with joy on the top of the posts. He did more than wriggle. One night he slid down from the post and slipped in between the elephants, and threw up the loose end of a rope, which had dropped, to a driver who was trying to get a purchase on the leg of a kicking young calf (calves always give more trouble than full-grown animals). Kala Nag saw him, caught him in his trunk, and handed him up to Big Toomai, who slapped him then and there, and put him back on the post. Next morning he gave him a scolding, and said: "Are not good brick elephant-lines and a little tent-carrying enough, that thou must needs go elephant-catching on thy own account, little worthless? Now those foolish hunters, whose pay is less than my pay, have spoken to Petersen Sahib of the matter." Little Toomai was frightened. He did not know much of white men, but Petersen Sahib was the greatest white man in the world to him. He was the head of all the Keddah operations--the man who caught all the elephants for the Government of India, and who knew more about the ways of elephants than any living man. "What--what will happen?" said Little Toomai. "Happen! the worst that can happen. Petersen Sahib is a madman. Else why should he go hunting these wild devils? He may even require thee to be an elephant-catcher, to sleep anywhere in these fever-filled jungles, and at last to be trampled to death in the Keddah. It is well that this nonsense ends safely. Next week the catching is over, and we of the plains are sent back to our stations. Then we will march on smooth roads, and forget all this hunting. But, son, I am angry that thou shouldst meddle in the business that belongs to these dirty Assamese jungle-folk. Kala Nag will obey none but me, so I must go with him into the Keddah, but he is only a fighting elephant, and he does not help to rope them. So I sit at my ease, as befits a mahout,--not a mere hunter,--a mahout, I say, and a man who gets a pension at the end of his service. Is the family of Toomai of the Elephants to be trodden underfoot in the dirt of a Keddah? Bad one! Wicked one! Worthless son! Go and wash Kala Nag and attend to his ears, and see that there are no thorns in his feet; or else Petersen Sahib will surely catch thee and make thee a wild hunter--a follower of elephant's foot-tracks, a jungle-bear. Bah! Shame! Go!" Little Toomai went off without saying a word, but he told Kala Nag all his grievances while he was examining his feet. "No matter," said Little Toomai, turning up the fringe of Kala Nag's huge right ear. "They have said my name to Petersen Sahib, and perhaps--and perhaps--and perhaps--who knows? Hai! That is a big thorn that I have pulled out!" The next few days were spent in getting the elephants together, in walking the newly caught wild elephants up and down between a couple of tame ones, to prevent them from giving too much trouble on the downward march to the plains, and in taking stock of the blankets and ropes and things that had been worn out or lost in the forest. Petersen Sahib came in on his clever she-elephant Pudmini; he had been paying off other camps among the hills, for the season was coming to an end, and there was a native clerk sitting at a table under a tree, to pay the drivers their wages. As each man was paid he went back to his elephant, and joined the line that stood ready to start. The catchers, and hunters, and beaters, the men of the regular Keddah, who stayed in the jungle year in and year out, sat on the backs of the elephants that belonged to Petersen Sahib's permanent force, or leaned against the trees with their guns across their arms, and made fun of the drivers who were going away, and laughed when the newly caught elephants broke the line and ran about. Big Toomai went up to the clerk with Little Toomai behind him, and Machua Appa, the head-tracker, said in an undertone to a friend of his, "There goes one piece of good elephant-stuff at least. 'T is a pity to send that young jungle-cock to moult in the plains." Now Petersen Sahib had ears all over him, as a man must have who listens to the most silent of all living things--the wild elephant. He turned where he was lying all along on Pudmini's back, and said, "What is that? I did not know of a man among the plain-drivers who had wit enough to rope even a dead elephant." "This is not a man, but a boy. He went into the Keddah at the last drive, and threw Barmao there the rope, when we were trying to get that young calf with the blotch on his shoulder away from his mother." Machua Appa pointed at Little Toomai, and Petersen Sahib looked, and Little Toomai bowed to the earth. "He throw a rope? He is smaller than a picket-pin. Little one, what is thy name?" said Petersen Sahib. Little Toomai was too frightened to speak, but Kala Nag was behind him, and Toomai made a sign with his hand, and the elephant caught him up in his trunk and held him level with Pudmini's forehead, in front of the great Petersen Sahib. Then Little Toomai covered his face with his hands, for he was only a child, and except where elephants were concerned, he was just as bashful as a child could be. "Oho!" said Petersen Sahib, smiling underneath his mustache, "and why didst thou teach thy elephant _that_ trick? Was it to help thee steal green corn from the roofs of the houses when the ears are put out to dry?" [Illustration: "'NOT GREEN CORN, PROTECTOR OF THE POOR,--MELONS,' SAID LITTLE TOOMAI."] "Not green corn, Protector of the Poor,--melons," said Little Toomai, and all the men sitting about broke into a roar of laughter. Most of them had taught their elephants that trick when they were boys. Little Toomai was hanging eight feet up in the air, and he wished very much that he were eight feet underground. "He is Toomai, my son, Sahib," said Big Toomai, scowling. "He is a very bad boy, and he will end in a jail, Sahib." "Of that I have my doubts," said Petersen Sahib. "A boy who can face a full Keddah at his age does not end in jails. See, little one, here are four annas to spend in sweetmeats because thou hast a little head under that great thatch of hair. In time thou mayest become a hunter too." Big Toomai scowled more than ever. "Remember, though, that Keddahs are not good for children to play in," Petersen Sahib went on. "Must I never go there, Sahib?" asked Little Toomai, with a big gasp. "Yes." Petersen Sahib smiled again. "When thou hast seen the elephants dance. That is the proper time. Come to me when thou hast seen the elephants dance, and then I will let thee go into all the Keddahs." There was another roar of laughter, for that is an old joke among elephant-catchers, and it means just never. There are great cleared flat places hidden away in the forests that are called elephants' ballrooms, but even these are found only by accident, and no man has ever seen the elephants dance. When a driver boasts of his skill and bravery the other drivers say, "And when didst _thou_ see the elephants dance?" Kala Nag put Little Toomai down, and he bowed to the earth again and went away with his father, and gave the silver four-anna piece to his mother, who was nursing his baby-brother, and they all were put up on Kala Nag's back, and the line of grunting, squealing elephants rolled down the hill-path to the plains. It was a very lively march on account of the new elephants, who gave trouble at every ford, and who needed coaxing or beating every other minute. Big Toomai prodded Kala Nag spitefully, for he was very angry, but Little Toomai was too happy to speak. Petersen Sahib had noticed him, and given him money, so he felt as a private soldier would feel if he had been called out of the ranks and praised by his commander-in-chief. "What did Petersen Sahib mean by the elephant-dance?" he said, at last, softly to his mother. Big Toomai heard him and grunted. "That thou shouldst never be one of these hill-buffaloes of trackers. _That_ was what he meant. Oh you in front, what is blocking the way?" An Assamese driver, two or three elephants ahead, turned round angrily, crying: "Bring up Kala Nag, and knock this youngster of mine into good behavior. Why should Petersen Sahib have chosen _me_ to go down with you donkeys of the rice-fields? Lay your beast alongside, Toomai, and let him prod with his tusks. By all the Gods of the Hills, these new elephants are possessed, or else they can smell their companions in the jungle." Kala Nag hit the new elephant in the ribs and knocked the wind out of him, as Big Toomai said, "We have swept the hills of wild elephants at the last catch. It is only your carelessness in driving. Must I keep order along the whole line?" "Hear him!" said the other driver. "_We_ have swept the hills! Ho! ho! You are very wise, you plains-people. Any one but a mudhead who never saw the jungle would know that _they_ know that the drives are ended for the season. Therefore all the wild elephants to-night will--but why should I waste wisdom on a river-turtle?" "What will they do?" Little Toomai called out. "_Ohé_, little one. Art thou there? Well, I will tell thee, for thou hast a cool head. They will dance, and it behooves thy father, who has swept _all_ the hills of _all_ the elephants, to double-chain his pickets to-night." "What talk is this?" said Big Toomai. "For forty years, father and son, we have tended elephants, and we have never heard such moonshine about dances." "Yes; but a plains-man who lives in a hut knows only the four walls of his hut. Well, leave thy elephants unshackled to-night and see what comes; as for their dancing, I have seen the place where--_Bapree-Bap!_ how many windings has the Dihang River? Here is another ford, and we must swim the calves. Stop still, you behind there." And in this way, talking and wrangling and splashing through the rivers, they made their first march to a sort of receiving-camp for the new elephants; but they lost their tempers long before they got there. Then the elephants were chained by their hind legs to their big stumps of pickets, and extra ropes were fitted to the new elephants, and the fodder was piled before them, and the hill-drivers went back to Petersen Sahib through the afternoon light, telling the plains-drivers to be extra careful that night, and laughing when the plains-drivers asked the reason. Little Toomai attended to Kala Nag's supper, and as evening fell, wandered through the camp, unspeakably happy, in search of a tom-tom. When an Indian child's heart is full, he does not run about and make a noise in an irregular fashion. He sits down to a sort of revel all by himself. And Little Toomai had been spoken to by Petersen Sahib! If he had not found what he wanted I believe he would have burst. But the sweatmeat-seller in the camp lent him a little tom-tom--a drum beaten with the flat of the hand--and he sat down, cross-legged, before Kala Nag as the stars began to come out, the tom-tom in his lap, and he thumped and he thumped and he thumped, and the more he thought of the great honor that had been done to him, the more he thumped, all alone among the elephant-fodder. There was no tune and no words, but the thumping made him happy. The new elephants strained at their ropes, and squealed and trumpeted from time to time, and he could hear his mother in the camp hut putting his small brother to sleep with an old, old song about the great God Shiv, who once told all the animals what they should eat. It is a very soothing lullaby, and the first verse says: Shiv, who poured the harvest and made the winds to blow, Sitting at the doorways of a day of long ago, Gave to each his portion, food and toil and fate, From the King upon the _guddee_ to the Beggar at the gate. All things made he--Shiva the Preserver. Mahadeo! Mahadeo! he made all,-- Thorn for the camel, fodder for the kine, And mother's heart for sleepy head, O little son of mine! Little Toomai came in with a joyous _tunk-a-tunk_ at the end of each verse, till he felt sleepy and stretched himself on the fodder at Kala Nag's side. At last the elephants began to lie down one after another as is their custom, till only Kala Nag at the right of the line was left standing up; and he rocked slowly from side to side, his ears put forward to listen to the night wind as it blew very slowly across the hills. The air was full of all the night noises that, taken together, make one big silence--the click of one bamboo-stem against the other, the rustle of something alive in the undergrowth, the scratch and squawk of a half-waked bird (birds are awake in the night much more often than we imagine), and the fall of water ever so far away. Little Toomai slept for some time, and when he waked it was brilliant moonlight, and Kala Nag was still standing up with his ears cocked. Little Toomai turned, rustling in the fodder, and watched the curve of his big back against half the stars in heaven, and while he watched he heard, so far away that it sounded no more than a pinhole of noise pricked through the stillness, the "hoot-toot" of a wild elephant. All the elephants in the lines jumped up as if they had been shot, and their grunts at last waked the sleeping mahouts, and they came out and drove in the picket-pegs with big mallets, and tightened this rope and knotted that till all was quiet. One new elephant had nearly grubbed up his picket, and Big Toomai took off Kala Nag's leg-chain and shackled that elephant fore foot to hind foot, but slipped a loop of grass-string round Kala Nag's leg, and told him to remember that he was tied fast. He knew that he and his father and his grandfather had done the very same thing hundreds of times before. Kala Nag did not answer to the order by gurgling, as he usually did. He stood still, looking out across the moonlight, his head a little raised and his ears spread like fans, up to the great folds of the Garo hills. "Look to him if he grows restless in the night," said Big Toomai to Little Toomai, and he went into the hut and slept. Little Toomai was just going to sleep, too, when he heard the coir string snap with a little "tang," and Kala Nag rolled out of his pickets as slowly and as silently as a cloud rolls out of the mouth of a valley. Little Toomai pattered after him, bare-footed, down the road in the moonlight, calling under his breath, "Kala Nag! Kala Nag! Take me with you, O Kala Nag!" The elephant turned without a sound, took three strides back to the boy in the moonlight, put down his trunk, swung him up to his neck, and almost before Little Toomai had settled his knees, slipped into the forest. There was one blast of furious trumpeting from the lines, and then the silence shut down on everything, and Kala Nag began to move. Sometimes a tuft of high grass washed along his sides as a wave washes along the sides of a ship, and sometimes a cluster of wild-pepper vines would scrape along his back, or a bamboo would creak where his shoulder touched it; but between those times he moved absolutely without any sound, drifting through the thick Garo forest as though it had been smoke. He was going uphill, but though Little Toomai watched the stars in the rifts of the trees, he could not tell in what direction. Then Kala Nag reached the crest of the ascent and stopped for a minute, and Little Toomai could see the tops of the trees lying all speckled and furry under the moonlight for miles and miles, and the blue-white mist over the river in the hollow. Toomai leaned forward and looked, and he felt that the forest was awake below him--awake and alive and crowded. A big brown fruit-eating bat brushed past his ear; a porcupine's quills rattled in the thicket, and in the darkness between the tree-stems he heard a hog-bear digging hard in the moist warm earth, and snuffing as it digged. Then the branches closed over his head again, and Kala Nag began to go down into the valley--not quietly this time, but as a runaway gun goes down a steep bank--in one rush. The huge limbs moved as steadily as pistons, eight feet to each stride, and the wrinkled skin of the elbow-points rustled. The undergrowth on either side of him ripped with a noise like torn canvas, and the saplings that he heaved away right and left with his shoulders sprang back again, and banged him on the flank, and great trails of creepers, all matted together, hung from his tusks as he threw his head from side to side and plowed out his pathway. Then Little Toomai laid himself down close to the great neck, lest a swinging bough should sweep him to the ground, and he wished that he were back in the lines again. The grass began to get squashy, and Kala Nag's feet sucked and squelched as he put them down, and the night mist at the bottom of the valley chilled Little Toomai. There was a splash and a trample, and the rush of running water, and Kala Nag strode through the bed of a river, feeling his way at each step. Above the noise of the water, as it swirled round the elephant's legs, Little Toomai could hear more splashing and some trumpeting both up-stream and down--great grunts and angry snortings, and all the mist about him seemed to be full of rolling wavy shadows. "_Ai!_" he said, half aloud, his teeth chattering. "The elephant-folk are out to-night. It _is_ the dance, then." Kala Nag swashed out of the water, blew his trunk clear, and began another climb; but this time he was not alone, and he had not to make his path. That was made already, six feet wide, in front of him, where the bent jungle-grass was trying to recover itself and stand up. Many elephants must have gone that way only a few minutes before. Little Toomai looked back, and behind him a great wild tusker with his little pig's eyes glowing like hot coals, was just lifting himself out of the misty river. Then the trees closed up again, and they went on and up, with trumpetings and crashings, and the sound of breaking branches on every side of them. At last Kala Nag stood still between two tree-trunks at the very top of the hill. They were part of a circle of trees that grew round an irregular space of some three or four acres, and in all that space, as Little Toomai could see, the ground had been trampled down as hard as a brick floor. Some trees grew in the center of the clearing, but their bark was rubbed away, and the white wood beneath showed all shiny and polished in the patches of moonlight. There were creepers hanging from the upper branches, and the bells of the flowers of the creepers, great waxy white things like convolvuluses, hung down fast asleep; but within the limits of the clearing there was not a single blade of green--nothing but the trampled earth. The moonlight showed it all iron-gray, except where some elephants stood upon it, and their shadows were inky black. Little Toomai looked, holding his breath, with his eyes starting out of his head, and as he looked, more and more and more elephants swung out into the open from between the tree-trunks. Little Toomai could count only up to ten, and he counted again and again on his fingers till he lost count of the tens, and his head began to swim. Outside the clearing he could hear them crashing in the undergrowth as they worked their way up the hillside; but as soon as they were within the circle of the tree-trunks they moved like ghosts. There were white-tusked wild males, with fallen leaves and nuts and twigs lying in the wrinkles of their necks and the folds of their ears; fat slow-footed she-elephants, with restless, little pinky-black calves only three or four feet high running under their stomachs; young elephants with their tusks just beginning to show, and very proud of them; lanky, scraggy old-maid elephants, with their hollow anxious faces, and trunks like rough bark; savage old bull-elephants, scarred from shoulder to flank with great weals and cuts of bygone fights, and the caked dirt of their solitary mud-baths dropping from their shoulders; and there was one with a broken tusk and the marks of the full-stroke, the terrible drawing scrape, of a tiger's claws on his side. They were standing head to head, or walking to and fro across the ground in couples, or rocking and swaying all by themselves--scores and scores of elephants. Toomai knew that so long as he lay still on Kala Nag's neck nothing would happen to him; for even in the rush and scramble of a Keddah-drive a wild elephant does not reach up with his trunk and drag a man off the neck of a tame elephant; and these elephants were not thinking of men that night. Once they started and put their ears forward when they heard the chinking of a leg-iron in the forest, but it was Pudmini, Petersen Sahib's pet elephant, her chain snapped short off, grunting, snuffling up the hillside. She must have broken her pickets, and come straight from Petersen Sahib's camp; and Little Toomai saw another elephant, one that he did not know, with deep rope-galls on his back and breast. He, too, must have run away from some camp in the hills about. At last there was no sound of any more elephants moving in the forest, and Kala Nag rolled out from his station between the trees and went into the middle of the crowd, clucking and gurgling, and all the elephants began to talk in their own tongue, and to move about. [Illustration: "LITTLE TOOMAI LOOKED DOWN UPON SCORES AND SCORES OF BROAD BACKS."] Still lying down, Little Toomai looked down upon scores and scores of broad backs, and wagging ears, and tossing trunks, and little rolling eyes. He heard the click of tusks as they crossed other tusks by accident, and the dry rustle of trunks twined together, and the chafing of enormous sides and shoulders in the crowd, and the incessant flick and _hissh_ of the great tails. Then a cloud came over the moon, and he sat in black darkness; but the quiet, steady hustling and pushing and gurgling went on just the same. He knew that there were elephants all round Kala Nag, and that there was no chance of backing him out of the assembly; so he set his teeth and shivered. In a Keddah at least there was torch-light and shouting, but here he was all alone in the dark, and once a trunk came up and touched him on the knee. Then an elephant trumpeted, and they all took it up for five or ten terrible seconds. The dew from the trees above spattered down like rain on the unseen backs, and a dull booming noise began, not very loud at first, and Little Toomai could not tell what it was; but it grew and grew, and Kala Nag lifted up one fore foot and then the other, and brought them down on the ground--one-two, one-two, as steadily as trip-hammers. The elephants were stamping altogether now, and it sounded like a war-drum beaten at the mouth of a cave. The dew fell from the trees till there was no more left to fall, and the booming went on, and the ground rocked and shivered, and Little Toomai put his hands up to his ears to shut out the sound. But it was all one gigantic jar that ran through him--this stamp of hundreds of heavy feet on the raw earth. Once or twice he could feel Kala Nag and all the others surge forward a few strides, and the thumping would change to the crushing sound of juicy green things being bruised, but in a minute or two the boom of feet on hard earth began again. A tree was creaking and groaning somewhere near him. He put out his arm and felt the bark, but Kala Nag moved forward, still tramping, and he could not tell where he was in the clearing. There was no sound from the elephants, except once, when two or three little calves squeaked together. Then he heard a thump and a shuffle, and the booming went on. It must have lasted fully two hours, and Little Toomai ached in every nerve; but he knew by the smell of the night air that the dawn was coming. The morning broke in one sheet of pale yellow behind the green hills, and the booming stopped with the first ray, as though the light had been an order. Before Little Toomai had got the ringing out of his head, before even he had shifted his position, there was not an elephant in sight except Kala Nag, Pudmini, and the elephant with the rope-galls, and there was neither sign nor rustle nor whisper down the hillsides to show where the others had gone. Little Toomai stared again and again. The clearing, as he remembered it, had grown in the night. More trees stood in the middle of it, but the undergrowth and the jungle-grass at the sides had been rolled back. Little Toomai stared once more. Now he understood the trampling. The elephants had stamped out more room--had stamped the thick grass and juicy cane to trash, the trash into slivers, the slivers into tiny fibers, and the fibers into hard earth. "Wah!" said Little Toomai, and his eyes were very heavy. "Kala Nag, my lord, let us keep by Pudmini and go to Peterson Sahib's camp, or I shall drop from thy neck." The third elephant watched the two go away, snorted, wheeled round, and took his own path. He may have belonged to some little native king's establishment, fifty or sixty or a hundred miles away. Two hours later, as Petersen Sahib was eating early breakfast, his elephants, who had been double-chained that night, began to trumpet, and Pudmini, mired to the shoulders, with Kala Nag, very foot-sore, shambled into the camp. Little Toomai's face was gray and pinched, and his hair was full of leaves and drenched with dew; but he tried to salute Petersen Sahib, and cried faintly: "The dance--the elephant-dance! I have seen it, and--I die!" As Kala Nag sat down, he slid off his neck in a dead faint. But, since native children have no nerves worth speaking of, in two hours he was lying very contentedly in Petersen Sahib's hammock with Petersen Sahib's shooting-coat under his head, and a glass of warm milk, a little brandy, with a dash of quinine inside of him, and while the old hairy, scarred hunters of the jungles sat three-deep before him, looking at him as though he were a spirit, he told his tale in short words, as a child will, and wound up with: "Now, if I lie in one word, send men to see, and they will find that the elephant-folk have trampled down more room in their dance-room, and they will find ten and ten, and many times ten, tracks leading to that dance-room. They made more room with their feet. I have seen it. Kala Nag took me, and I saw. Also Kala Nag is very leg-weary!" Little Toomai lay back and slept all through the long afternoon and into the twilight, and while he slept Petersen Sahib and Machua Appa followed the track of the two elephants for fifteen miles across the hills. Petersen Sahib had spent eighteen years in catching elephants, and he had only once before found such a dance-place. Machua Appa had no need to look twice at the clearing to see what had been done there, or to scratch with his toe in the packed, rammed earth. "The child speaks truth," said he. "All this was done last night, and I have counted seventy tracks crossing the river. See, Sahib, where Pudmini's leg-iron cut the bark of that tree! Yes; she was there too." They looked at each other, and up and down, and they wondered; for the ways of elephants are beyond the wit of any man, black or white, to fathom. "Forty years and five," said Machua Appa, "have I followed my lord, the elephant, but never have I heard that any child of man had seen what this child has seen. By all the Gods of the Hills, it is--what can we say?" and he shook his head. When they got back to camp it was time for the evening meal. Peterson Sahib ate alone in his tent, but he gave orders that the camp should have two sheep and some fowls, as well as a double-ration of flour and rice and salt, for he knew that there would be a feast. Big Toomai had come up hot-foot from the camp in the plains to search for his son and his elephant, and now that he had found them he looked at them as though he were afraid of them both. And there was a feast by the blazing campfires in front of the lines of picketed elephants, and Little Toomai was the hero of it all; and the big brown elephant-catchers, the trackers and drivers and ropers, and the men who know all the secrets of breaking the wildest elephants, passed him from one to the other, and they marked his forehead with blood from the breast of a newly killed jungle-cock, to show that he was a forester, initiated and free of all the jungles. And at last, when the flames died down, and the red light of the logs made the elephants look as though they had been dipped in blood too, Machua Appa, the head of all the drivers of all the Keddahs--Machua Appa, Petersen Sahib's other self, who had never seen a made road in forty years: Machua Appa, who was so great that he had no other name than Machua Appa--leaped to his feet, with Little Toomai held high in the air above his head, and shouted: "Listen, my brothers. Listen, too, you my lords in the lines there, for I, Machua Appa, am speaking! This little one shall no more be called Little Toomai, but Toomai of the Elephants, as his great-grandfather was called before him. What never man has seen he has seen through the long night, and the favor of the elephant-folk and of the Gods of the Jungles is with him. He shall become a great tracker; he shall become greater than I, even I, Machua Appa! He shall follow the new trail, and the stale trail, and the mixed trail, with a clear eye! He shall take no harm in the Keddah when he runs under their bellies to rope the wild tuskers; and if he slips before the feet of the charging bull-elephant that bull-elephant shall know who he is and shall not crush him. _Aihai!_ my lords in the chains,"--he whirled up the line of pickets,--"here is the little one that has seen your dances in your hidden places--the sight that never man saw! Give him honor, my lords! _Salaam karo_, my children. Make your salute to Toomai of the Elephants! Gunga Pershad, ahaa! Hira Guj, Birchi Guj, Kuttar Guj, ahaa! Pudmini,--thou hast seen him at the dance, and thou too, Kala Nag, my pearl among elephants!--ahaa! Together! To Toomai of the Elephants. _Barrao!_" [Illustration: "'TO TOOMAI OF THE ELEPHANTS. BARRAO!'"] And at that last wild yell the whole line flung up their trunks till the tips touched their foreheads, and broke out into the full salute--the crashing trumpet-peal that only the Viceroy of India hears, the Salaamut of the Keddah. But it was all for the sake of Little Toomai, who had seen what never man had seen before--the dance of the elephants at night and alone in the heart of the Garo hills! SHIV AND THE GRASSHOPPER (THE SONG THAT TOOMAI'S MOTHER SANG TO THE BABY) Shiv, who poured the harvest and made the winds to blow, Sitting at the doorways of a day of long ago, Gave to each his portion, food and toil and fate, From the King upon the _guddee_ to the Beggar at the gate. _All things made he--Shiva the Preserver, Mahadeo! Mahadeo! he made all,-- Thorn for the camel, fodder for the kine, And mother's heart for sleepy head, O little son of mine!_ Wheat he gave to rich folk, millet to the poor, Broken scraps for holy men that beg from door to door; Cattle to the tiger, carrion to the kite, And rags and bones to wicked wolves without the wall at night. Naught he found too lofty, none he saw too low-- Parbati beside him watched them come and go; Thought to cheat her husband, turning Shiv to jest-- Stole the little grasshopper and hid it in her breast. _So she tricked him, Shiva the Preserver. Mahadeo! Mahadeo! turn and see. Tall are the camels, heavy are the kine, But this was least of little things, O little son of mine!_ When the dole was ended, laughingly she said, "Master, of a million mouths is not one unfed?" Laughing, Shiv made answer, "All have had their part, Even he, the little one, hidden 'neath thy heart." From her breast she plucked it, Parbati the thief, Saw the Least of Little Things gnawed a new-grown leaf! Saw and feared and wondered, making prayer to Shiv, Who hath surely given meat to all that live. _All things made he--Shiva the Preserver. Mahadeo! Mahadeo! he made all,-- Thorn for the camel, fodder for the kine, And mother's heart for sleepy head, O little son of mine!_ HER MAJESTY'S SERVANTS You can work it out by Fractions or by simple Rule of Three, But the way of Tweedle-dum is not the way of Tweedle-dee. You can twist it, you can turn it, you can plait it till you drop But the way of Pilly-Winky's not the way of Winkie-Pop! [Illustration] HER MAJESTY'S SERVANTS IT had been raining heavily for one whole month--raining on a camp of thirty thousand men, thousands of camels, elephants, horses, bullocks, and mules, all gathered together at a place called Rawal Pindi, to be reviewed by the Viceroy of India. He was receiving a visit from the Amir of Afghanistan--a wild king of a very wild country; and the Amir had brought with him for a bodyguard eight hundred men and horses who had never seen a camp or a locomotive before in their lives--savage men and savage horses from somewhere at the back of Central Asia. Every night a mob of these horses would be sure to break their heel-ropes, and stampede up and down the camp through the mud in the dark, or the camels would break loose and run about and fall over the ropes of the tents, and you can imagine how pleasant that was for men trying to go to sleep. My tent lay far away from the camel lines, and I thought it was safe; but one night a man popped his head in and shouted, "Get out, quick! They're coming! My tent's gone!" I knew who "they" were; so I put on my boots and waterproof and scuttled out into the slush. Little Vixen, my fox-terrier, went out through the other side; and then there was a roaring and a grunting and bubbling, and I saw the tent cave in, as the pole snapped, and begin to dance about like a mad ghost. A camel had blundered into it, and wet and angry as I was, I could not help laughing. Then I ran on, because I did not know how many camels might have got loose, and before long I was out of sight of the camp, plowing my way through the mud. [Illustration: "A CAMEL HAD BLUNDERED INTO MY TENT."] At last I fell over the tail-end of a gun, and by that knew I was somewhere near the Artillery lines where the cannon were stacked at night. As I did not want to plowter about any more in the drizzle and the dark, I put my waterproof over the muzzle of one gun, and made a sort of wigwam with two or three rammers that I found, and lay along the tail of another gun, wondering where Vixen had got to, and where I might be. Just as I was getting ready to sleep I heard a jingle of harness and a grunt, and a mule passed me shaking his wet ears. He belonged to a screw-gun battery, for I could hear the rattle of the straps and rings and chains and things on his saddle-pad. The screw-guns are tidy little cannon made in two pieces, that are screwed together when the time comes to use them. They are taken up mountains, anywhere that a mule can find a road, and they are very useful for fighting in rocky country. Behind the mule there was a camel, with his big soft feet squelching and slipping in the mud, and his neck bobbing to and fro like a strayed hen's. Luckily, I knew enough of beast language--not wild-beast language, but camp-beast language, of course--from the natives to know what he was saying. He must have been the one that flopped into my tent, for he called to the mule, "What shall I do? Where shall I go? I have fought with a white thing that waved, and it took a stick and hit me on the neck." (That was my broken tentpole, and I was very glad to know it.) "Shall we run on?" "Oh, it was you," said the mule, "you and your friends, that have been disturbing the camp? All right. You'll be beaten for this in the morning; but I may as well give you something on account now." I heard the harness jingle as the mule backed and caught the camel two kicks in the ribs that rang like a drum. "Another time," he said, "you'll know better than to run through a mule-battery at night, shouting 'Thieves and fire!' Sit down, and keep your silly neck quiet." The camel doubled up camel-fashion, like a two-foot rule, and sat down whimpering. There was a regular beat of hoofs in the darkness, and a big troop-horse cantered up as steadily as though he were on parade, jumped a gun-tail, and landed close to the mule. "It's disgraceful," he said, blowing out his nostrils. "Those camels have racketed through our lines again--the third time this week. How's a horse to keep his condition if he isn't allowed to sleep? Who's here?" "I'm the breech-piece mule of number two gun of the First Screw Battery," said the mule, "and the other's one of your friends. He's waked me up too. Who are you?" "Number Fifteen, E troop, Ninth Lancers--Dick Cunliffe's horse. Stand over a little, there." "Oh, beg your pardon," said the mule. "It's too dark to see much. Aren't these camels too sickening for anything? I walked out of my lines to get a little peace and quiet here." "My lords," said the camel humbly, "we dreamed bad dreams in the night, and we were very much afraid. I am only a baggage-camel of the 39th Native Infantry, and I am not so brave as you are, my lords." "Then why the pickets didn't you stay and carry baggage for the 39th Native Infantry, instead of running all round the camp?" said the mule. "They were such very bad dreams," said the camel. "I am sorry. Listen! What is that? Shall we run on again?" "Sit down," said the mule, "or you'll snap your long legs between the guns." He cocked one ear and listened. "Bullocks!" he said; "gun-bullocks. On my word, you and your friends have waked the camp very thoroughly. It takes a good deal of prodding to put up a gun-bullock." I heard a chain dragging along the ground, and a yoke of the great sulky white bullocks that drag the heavy siege-guns when the elephants won't go any nearer to the firing, came shouldering along together; and almost stepping on the chain was another battery-mule, calling wildly for "Billy." "That's one of our recruits," said the old mule to the troop-horse. "He's calling for me. Here, youngster, stop squealing; the dark never hurt anybody yet." The gun-bullocks lay down together and began chewing the cud, but the young mule huddled close to Billy. "Things!" he said; "fearful and horrible things, Billy! They came into our lines while we were asleep. D'you think they'll kill us?" "I've a very great mind to give you a number one kicking," said Billy. "The idea of a fourteen-hand mule with your training disgracing the battery before this gentleman!" "Gently, gently!" said the troop-horse. "Remember they are always like this to begin with. The first time I ever saw a man (it was in Australia when I was a three-year-old) I ran for half a day, and if I'd seen a camel I should have been running still." Nearly all our horses for the English cavalry are brought to India from Australia, and are broken in by the troopers themselves. "True enough," said Billy. "Stop shaking, youngster. The first time they put the full harness with all its chains on my back, I stood on my fore legs and kicked every bit of it off. I hadn't learned the real science of kicking then, but the battery said they had never seen anything like it." "But this wasn't harness or anything that jingled," said the young mule. "You know I don't mind that now, Billy. It was Things like trees, and they fell up and down the lines and bubbled; and my head-rope broke, and I couldn't find my driver, and I couldn't find you, Billy, so I ran off with--with these gentlemen." "H'm!" said Billy. "As soon as I heard the camels were loose I came away on my own account, quietly. When a battery--a screw-gun mule calls gun-bullocks gentlemen, he must be very badly shaken up. Who are you fellows on the ground there?" The gun-bullocks rolled their cuds, and answered both together: "The seventh yoke of the first gun of the Big Gun Battery. We were asleep when the camels came, but when we were trampled on we got up and walked away. It is better to lie quiet in the mud than to be disturbed on good bedding. We told your friend here that there was nothing to be afraid of, but he knew so much that he thought otherwise. Wah!" They went on chewing. "That comes of being afraid," said Billy. "You get laughed at by gun-bullocks. I hope you like it, young 'un." The young mule's teeth snapped, and I heard him say something about not being afraid of any beefy old bullock in the world; but the bullocks only clicked their horns together and went on chewing. "Now, don't be angry _after_ you've been afraid. That's the worst kind of cowardice," said the troop-horse. "Anybody can be forgiven for being scared in the night, _I_ think, if they see things they don't understand. We've broken out of our pickets, again and again, four hundred and fifty of us, just because a new recruit got to telling tales of whip-snakes at home in Australia till we were scared to death of the loose ends of our head-ropes." [Illustration: "'ANYBODY CAN BE FORGIVEN FOR BEING SCARED IN THE NIGHT,' SAID THE TROOP-HORSE."] "That's all very well in camp," said Billy; "I'm not above stampeding myself, for the fun of the thing, when I haven't been out for a day or two; but what do you do on active service?" "Oh, that's quite another set of new shoes," said the troop-horse. "Dick Cunliffe's on my back then, and drives his knees into me, and all I have to do is to watch where I am putting my feet, and to keep my hind legs well under me, and be bridle-wise." "What's bridle-wise?" said the young mule. "By the Blue Gums of the Back Blocks," snorted the troop-horse, "do you mean to say that you aren't taught to be bridle-wise in your business? How can you do anything, unless you can spin round at once when the rein is pressed on your neck? It means life or death to your man, and of course that's life or death to you. Get round with your hind legs under you the instant you feel the rein on your neck. If you haven't room to swing round, rear up a little and come round on your hind legs. That's being bridle-wise." "We aren't taught that way," said Billy the mule stiffly. "We're taught to obey the man at our head: step off when he says so, and step in when he says so. I suppose it comes to the same thing. Now, with all this fine fancy business and rearing, which must be very bad for your hocks, what do you _do_?" "That depends," said the troop-horse. "Generally I have to go in among a lot of yelling, hairy men with knives,--long shiny knives, worse than the farrier's knives,--and I have to take care that Dick's boot is just touching the next man's boot without crushing it. I can see Dick's lance to the right of my right eye, and I know I'm safe. I shouldn't care to be the man or horse that stood up to Dick and me when we're in a hurry." "Don't the knives hurt?" said the young mule. "Well, I got one cut across the chest once, but that wasn't Dick's fault--" "A lot I should have cared whose fault it was, if it hurt!" said the young mule. "You must," said the troop-horse. "If you don't trust your man, you may as well run away at once. That's what some of our horses do, and I don't blame them. As I was saying, it wasn't Dick's fault. The man was lying on the ground, and I stretched myself not to tread on him, and he slashed up at me. Next time I have to go over a man lying down I shall step on him--hard." [Illustration: "'THE MAN WAS LYING ON THE GROUND, AND I STRETCHED MYSELF NOT TO TREAD ON HIM, AND HE SLASHED UP AT ME.'"] "H'm!" said Billy; "it sounds very foolish. Knives are dirty things at any time. The proper thing to do is to climb up a mountain with a well-balanced saddle, hang on by all four feet and your ears too, and creep and crawl and wriggle along, till you come out hundreds of feet above any one else, on a ledge where there's just room enough for your hoofs. Then you stand still and keep quiet,--never ask a man to hold your head, young 'un,--keep quiet while the guns are being put together, and then you watch the little poppy shells drop down into the tree-tops ever so far below." "Don't you ever trip?" said the troop-horse. "They say that when a mule trips you can split a hen's ear," said Billy. "Now and again _per-haps_ a badly packed saddle will upset a mule, but it's very seldom. I wish I could show you our business. It's beautiful. Why, it took me three years to find out what the men were driving at. The science of the thing is never to show up against the sky-line, because, if you do, you may get fired at. Remember that, young 'un. Always keep hidden as much as possible, even if you have to go a mile out of your way. I lead the battery when it comes to that sort of climbing." "Fired at without the chance of running into the people who are firing!" said the troop-horse, thinking hard. "I couldn't stand that. I should want to charge, with Dick." "Oh no, you wouldn't; you know that as soon as the guns are in position _they'll_ do all the charging. That's scientific and neat; but knives--pah!" The baggage-camel had been bobbing his head to and fro for some time past, anxious to get a word in edgeways. Then I heard him say, as he cleared his throat, nervously: "I--I--I have fought a little, but not in that climbing way or that running way." "No. Now you mention it," said Billy, "you don't look as though you were made for climbing or running--much. Well, how was it, old Hay-bales?" "The proper way," said the camel. "We all sat down--" "Oh, my crupper and breastplate!" said the troop-horse under his breath. "Sat down?" "We sat down--a hundred of us," the camel went on, "in a big square, and the men piled our packs and saddles outside the square, and they fired over our backs, the men did, on all sides of the square." "What sort of men? Any men that came along?" said the troop-horse. "They teach us in riding-school to lie down and let our masters fire across us, but Dick Cunliffe is the only man I'd trust to do that. It tickles my girths, and, besides, I can't see with my head on the ground." "What does it matter who fires across you?" said the camel. "There are plenty of men and plenty of other camels close by, and a great many clouds of smoke. I am not frightened then. I sit still and wait." "And yet," said Billy, "you dream bad dreams and upset the camp at night. Well! well! Before I'd lie down, not to speak of sitting down, and let a man fire across me, my heels and his head would have something to say to each other. Did you ever hear anything so awful as that?" There was a long silence, and then one of the gun-bullocks lifted up his big head and said, "This is very foolish indeed. There is only one way of fighting." "Oh, go on," said Billy. "_Please_ don't mind me. I suppose you fellows fight standing on your tails?" "Only one way," said the two together. (They must have been twins.) "This is that way. To put all twenty yoke of us to the big gun as soon as Two Tails trumpets." ("Two Tails" is camp slang for the elephant.) "What does Two Tails trumpet for?" said the young mule. "To show that he is not going any nearer to the smoke on the other side. Two Tails is a great coward. Then we tug the big gun all together--_Heya_--_Hullah! Heeyah! Hullah!_ _We_ do not climb like cats nor run like calves. We go across the level plain, twenty yoke of us, till we are unyoked again, and we graze while the big guns talk across the plain to some town with mud walls, and pieces of the wall fall out, and the dust goes up as though many cattle were coming home." "Oh! And you choose that time for grazing do you?" said the young mule. "That time or any other. Eating is always good. We eat till we are yoked up again and tug the gun back to where Two Tails is waiting for it. Sometimes there are big guns in the city that speak back, and some of us are killed, and then there is all the more grazing for those that are left. This is Fate--nothing but Fate. None the less, Two Tails is a great coward. That is the proper way to fight. We are brothers from Hapur. Our father was a sacred bull of Shiva. We have spoken." "Well, I've certainly learned something tonight," said the troop-horse. "Do you gentlemen of the screw-gun battery feel inclined to eat when you are being fired at with big guns, and Two Tails is behind you?" "About as much as we feel inclined to sit down and let men sprawl all over us, or run into people with knives. I never heard such stuff. A mountain ledge, a well-balanced load, a driver you can trust to let you pick your own way, and I'm your mule; but the other things--no!" said Billy, with a stamp of his foot. "Of course," said the troop-horse, "every one is not made in the same way, and I can quite see that your family, on your father's side, would fail to understand a great many things." "Never you mind my family on my father's side," said Billy angrily; for every mule hates to be reminded that his father was a donkey. "My father was a Southern gentleman, and he could pull down and bite and kick into rags every horse he came across. Remember that, you big brown Brumby!" Brumby means wild horse without any breeding. Imagine the feelings of Sunol if a car-horse called her a "skate," and you can imagine how the Australian horse felt. I saw the white of his eye glitter in the dark. "See here, you son of an imported Malaga jackass," he said between his teeth, "I'd have you know that I'm related on my mother's side to Carbine, winner of the Melbourne Cup, and where _I_ come from we aren't accustomed to being ridden over roughshod by any parrot-mouthed, pig-headed mule in a pop-gun peashooter battery. Are you ready?" "On your hind legs!" squealed Billy. They both reared up facing each other, and I was expecting a furious fight, when a gurgly, rumbly voice called out of the darkness to the right--"Children, what are you fighting about there? Be quiet." Both beasts dropped down with a snort of disgust, for neither horse nor mule can bear to listen to an elephant's voice. "It's Two Tails!" said the troop-horse. "I can't stand him. A tail at each end isn't fair!" "My feelings exactly," said Billy, crowding into the troop-horse for company. "We're very alike in some things." "I suppose we've inherited them from our mothers," said the troop-horse. "It's not worth quarreling about. Hi! Two Tails, are you tied up?" "Yes," said Two Tails, with a laugh all up his trunk. "I'm picketed for the night. I've heard what you fellows have been saying. But don't be afraid. I'm not coming over." The bullocks and the camel said, half aloud: "Afraid of Two Tails--what nonsense!" And the bullocks went on: "We are sorry that you heard, but it is true. Two Tails, why are you afraid of the guns when they fire?" "Well," said Two Tails, rubbing one hind leg against the other, exactly like a little boy saying a piece, "I don't quite know whether you'd understand." "We don't, but we have to pull the guns," said the bullocks. "I know it, and I know you are a good deal braver than you think you are. But it's different with me. My battery captain called me a Pachydermatous Anachronism the other day." "That's another way of fighting, I suppose?" said Billy, who was recovering his spirits. "_You_ don't know what that means, of course, but I do. It means betwixt and between, and that is just where I am. I can see inside my head what will happen when a shell bursts; and you bullocks can't." "I can," said the troop-horse. "At least a little bit. I try not to think about it." "I can see more than you, and I _do_ think about it. I know there's a great deal of me to take care of, and I know that nobody knows how to cure me when I'm sick. All they can do is to stop my driver's pay till I get well, and I can't trust my driver." "Ah!" said the troop-horse. "That explains it. I can trust Dick." "You could put a whole regiment of Dicks on my back without making me feel any better. I know just enough to be uncomfortable, and not enough to go on in spite of it." "We do not understand," said the bullocks. "I know you don't. I'm not talking to you. You don't know what blood is." "We do," said the bullocks. "It is red stuff that soaks into the ground and smells." The troop-horse gave a kick and a bound and a snort. "Don't talk of it," he said. "I can smell it now, just thinking of it. It makes me want to run--when I haven't Dick on my back." "But it is not here," said the camel and the bullocks. "Why are you so stupid?" "It's vile stuff," said Billy. "I don't want to run, but I don't want to talk about it." "There you are!" said Two Tails, waving his tail to explain. "Surely. Yes, we have been here all night," said the bullocks. Two Tails stamped his foot till the iron ring on it jingled. "Oh, I'm not talking to _you_. You can't see inside your heads." "No. We see out of our four eyes," said the bullocks. "We see straight in front of us." "If I could do that and nothing else you wouldn't be needed to pull the big guns at all. If I was like my captain--he can see things inside his head before the firing begins, and he shakes all over, but he knows too much to run away--if I was like him I could pull the guns. But if I were as wise as all that I should never be here. I should be a king in the forest, as I used to be, sleeping half the day and bathing when I liked. I haven't had a good bath for a month." "That's all very fine," said Billy; "but giving a thing a long name doesn't make it any better." "H'sh!" said the troop-horse. "I think I understand what Two Tails means." "You'll understand better in a minute," said Two Tails angrily. "Now, just you explain to me why you don't like _this_!" He began trumpeting furiously at the top of his trumpet. "Stop that!" said Billy and the troop-horse together, and I could hear them stamp and shiver. An elephant's trumpeting is always nasty, especially on a dark night. "I sha'n't stop," said Two Tails. "Won't you explain that, please? _Hhrrmþh! Rrrt! Rrrmph! Rrrhha!_" Then he stopped suddenly, and I heard a little whimper in the dark, and knew that Vixen had found me at last. She knew as well as I did that if there is one thing in the world the elephant is more afraid of than another it is a little barking dog; so she stopped to bully Two Tails in his pickets, and yapped round his big feet. Two Tails shuffled and squeaked. "Go away, little dog!" he said. "Don't snuff at my ankles, or I 'll kick at you. Good little dog--nice little doggie, then! Go home, you yelping little beast! Oh, why doesn't some one take her away? She'll bite me in a minute." "Seems to me," said Billy to the troop-horse, "that our friend Two Tails is afraid of most things. Now, if I had a full meal for every dog I've kicked across the parade-ground, I should be as fat as Two Tails nearly." I whistled, and Vixen ran up to me, muddy all over, and licked my nose, and told me a long tale about hunting for me all through the camp. I never let her know that I understood beast talk, or she would have taken all sorts of liberties. So I buttoned her into the breast of my overcoat, and Two Tails shuffled and stamped and growled to himself. "Extraordinary! Most extraordinary!" he said. "It runs in our family. Now, where has that nasty little beast gone to?" I heard him feeling about with his trunk. "We all seem to be affected in various ways," he went on, blowing his nose. "Now, you gentlemen were alarmed, I believe, when I trumpeted." "Not alarmed, exactly," said the troop-horse, "but it made me feel as though I had hornets where my saddle ought to be. Don't begin again." "I'm frightened of a little dog, and the camel here is frightened by bad dreams in the night." "It is very lucky for us that we haven't all got to fight in the same way," said the troop-horse. "What I want to know," said the young mule, who had been quiet for a long time--"what _I_ want to know is, why we have to fight at all." "Because we are told to," said the troop-horse, with a snort of contempt. "Orders," said Billy the mule; and his teeth snapped. "_Hukm hai!_" (It is an order), said the camel with a gurgle; and Two Tails and the bullocks repeated, "_Hukm hai!_" "Yes, but who gives the orders?" said the recruit-mule. "The man who walks at your head--Or sits on your back--Or holds the nose-rope--Or twists your tail," said Billy and the troop-horse and the camel and the bullocks one after the other. "But who gives them the orders?" "Now you want to know too much, young un," said Billy, "and that is one way of getting kicked. All you have to do is to obey the man at your head and ask no questions." "He's quite right," said Two Tails. "I can't always obey, because I'm betwixt and between; but Billy's right. Obey the man next to you who gives the order, or you'll stop all the battery, besides getting a thrashing." The gun-bullocks got up to go. "Morning is coming," they said. "We will go back to our lines. It is true that we see only out of our eyes, and we are not very clever; but still, we are the only people to-night who have not been afraid. Good night, you brave people." Nobody answered, and the troop-horse said, to change the conversation, "Where's that little dog? A dog means a man somewhere near." "Here I am," yapped Vixen, "under the gun-tail with my man. You big, blundering beast of a camel you, you upset our tent. My man's very angry." "Phew!" said the bullocks. "He must be white?" "Of course he is," said Vixen. "Do you suppose I'm looked after by a black bullock-driver?" "_Huah! Ouach! Ugh!_" said the bullocks. "Let us get away quickly." They plunged forward in the mud, and managed somehow to run their yoke on the pole of an ammunition-wagon, where it jammed. "Now you _have_ done it," said Billy calmly. "Don't struggle. You're hung up till daylight. What on earth's the matter?" The bullocks went off into the long hissing snorts that Indian cattle give, and pushed and crowded and slued and stamped and slipped and nearly fell down in the mud, grunting savagely. "You'll break your necks in a minute," said the troop-horse. "What's the matter with white men? I live with 'em." "They--eat--us! Pull!" said the near bullock: the yoke snapped with a twang, and they lumbered off together. I never knew before what made Indian cattle so afraid of Englishmen. We eat beef--a thing that no cattle-driver touches--and of course the cattle do not like it. "May I be flogged with my own pad-chains! Who'd have thought of two big lumps like those losing their heads?" said Billy. "Never mind. I'm going to look at this man. Most of the white men, I know, have things in their pockets," said the troop-horse. "I'll leave you, then. I can't say I'm overfond of 'em myself. Besides, white men who haven't a place to sleep in are more than likely to be thieves, and I've a good deal of Government property on my back. Come along, young 'un, and we'll go back to our lines. Good-night, Australia! See you on parade to-morrow, I suppose. Good-night, old Hay-bale!--try to control your feelings, won't you? Good-night, Two Tails! If you pass us on the ground to-morrow, don't trumpet. It spoils our formation." Billy the mule stumped off with the swaggering limp of an old campaigner, as the troop-horse's head came nuzzling into my breast, and I gave him biscuits; while Vixen, who is a most conceited little dog, told him fibs about the scores of horses that she and I kept. "I'm coming to the parade to-morrow in my dog-cart," she said. "Where will you be?" "On the left hand of the second squadron. I set the time for all my troop, little lady," he said politely. "Now I must go back to Dick. My tail's all muddy, and he'll have two hours' hard work dressing me for the parade." The big parade of all the thirty thousand men was held that afternoon, and Vixen and I had a good place close to the Viceroy and the Amir of Afghanistan, with his high big black hat of astrakhan wool and the great diamond star in the center. The first part of the review was all sunshine, and the regiments went by in wave upon wave of legs all moving together, and guns all in a line, till our eyes grew dizzy. Then the cavalry came up, to the beautiful cavalry canter of "Bonnie Dundee," and Vixen cocked her ear where she sat on the dog-cart. The second squadron of the lancers shot by, and there was the troop-horse, with his tail like spun silk, his head pulled into his breast, one ear forward and one back, setting the time for all his squadron, his legs going as smoothly as waltz-music. Then the big guns came by, and I saw Two Tails and two other elephants harnessed in line to a forty-pounder siege-gun while twenty yoke of oxen walked behind. The seventh pair had a new yoke, and they looked rather stiff and tired. Last came the screw-guns, and Billy the mule carried himself as though he commanded all the troops, and his harness was oiled and polished till it winked. I gave a cheer all by myself for Billy the mule, but he never looked right or left. The rain began to fall again, and for a while it was too misty to see what the troops were doing. They had made a big half-circle across the plain, and were spreading out into a line. That line grew and grew and grew till it was three-quarters of a mile long from wing to wing--one solid wall of men, horses, and guns. Then it came on straight toward the Viceroy and the Amir, and as it got nearer the ground began to shake, like the deck of a steamer when the engines are going fast. Unless you have been there you cannot imagine what a frightening effect this steady come-down of troops has on the spectators, even when they know it is only a review. I looked at the Amir. Up till then he had not shown the shadow of a sign of astonishment or anything else; but now his eyes began to get bigger and bigger, and he picked up the reins on his horse's neck and looked behind him. For a minute it seemed as though he were going to draw his sword and slash his way out through the English men and women in the carriages at the back. Then the advance stopped dead, the ground stood still, the whole line saluted, and thirty bands began to play all together. That was the end of the review, and the regiments went off to their camps in the rain; and an infantry band struck up with-- The animals went in two by two, Hurrah! The animals went in two by two, The elephant and the battery mu- l', and they all got into the Ark, For to get out of the rain! Then I heard an old, grizzled, long-haired Central Asian chief, who had come down with the Amir, asking questions of a native officer. [Illustration: "THEN I HEARD AN OLD, GRIZZLED, LONG-HAIRED, CENTRAL ASIAN CHIEF ASKING QUESTIONS OF A NATIVE OFFICER."] "Now," said he, "in what manner was this wonderful thing done?" And the officer answered, "There was an order, and they obeyed." "But are the beasts as wise as the men?" said the chief. "They obey, as the men do. Mule, horse, elephant, or bullock, he obeys his driver, and the driver his sergeant, and the sergeant his lieutenant, and the lieutenant his captain, and the captain his major, and the major his colonel, and the colonel his brigadier commanding three regiments, and the brigadier his general, who obeys the Viceroy, who is the servant of the Empress. Thus it is done." "Would it were so in Afghanistan!" said the chief; "for there we obey only our own wills." "And for that reason," said the native officer, twirling his mustache, "your Amir whom you do not obey must come here and take orders from our Viceroy." PARADE-SONG OF THE CAMP ANIMALS ELEPHANTS OF THE GUN-TEAM We lent to Alexander the strength of Hercules, The wisdom of our foreheads, the cunning of our knees; We bowed our necks to service; they ne'er were loosed again,-- Make way there, way for the ten-foot teams Of the Forty-Pounder train! GUN-BULLOCKS Those heroes in their harnesses avoid a cannon-ball, And what they know of powder upsets them one and all; Then _we_ come into action and tug the guns again,-- Make way there, way for the twenty yoke Of the Forty-Pounder train! CAVALRY HORSES By the brand on my withers, the finest of tunes Is played by the Lancers, Hussars, and Dragoons, And it's sweeter than "Stables" or "Water" to me, The Cavalry Canter of "Bonnie Dundee"! Then feed us and break us and handle and groom, And give us good riders and plenty of room, And launch us in column of squadrons and see The way of the war-horse to "Bonnie Dundee"! SCREW-GUN MULES As me and my companions were scrambling up a hill, The path was lost in rolling stones, but we went forward still; For we can wriggle and climb, my lads, and turn up everywhere, And it's our delight on a mountain height, with a leg or two to spare! Good luck to every sergeant, then, that lets us pick our road; Bad luck to all the driver-men that cannot pack a load: For we can wriggle and climb, my lads, and turn up everywhere, And it's our delight on a mountain height with a leg or two to spare! COMMISSARIAT CAMELS We haven't a camelty tune of our own To help us trollop along, But every neck is a hairy trombone (_Rtt-ta-ta-ta!_ is a hairy trombone!) And this is our marching song: _Can't! Don't! Shan't! Won't!_ Pass it along the line! Somebody's pack has slid from his back, Wish it were only mine! Somebody's load has tipped off in the road-- Cheer for a halt and a row! _Urrr! Yarrh! Grr! Arrh!_ Somebody's catching it now! ALL THE BEASTS TOGETHER Children of the Camp are we, Serving each in his degree; Children of the yoke and goad, Pack and harness, pad and load. See our line across the plain, Like a heel-rope bent again. Reaching, writhing, rolling far, Sweeping all away to war! While the men that walk beside, Dusty, silent, heavy-eyed, Cannot tell why we or they March and suffer day by day. _Children of the Camp are we,_ _Serving each in his degree;_ _Children of the yoke and goad,_ _Pack and harness, pad and load._ Transcriber's Notes: Passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_. Small caps were replaced with ALL CAPS. Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the speakers. Those words were retained as-is. The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up paragraphs and so that they are next the text they illustrate. Thus the page number of the illustration might not match the page number in the List of Illustrations, and the order of illustrations may not be the same in the List of Illustrations and in the book. On page 78, "Bandar log" was replaced with "Bandar-log". On page 80, a period was added after "leave to hunt here". On page 156, "Novastoshna" was replaced with "Novastoshnah". On page 171, "floam-flecked" was replaced with "foam-flecked". On page 299, there is a hyphen at the end of a line of poetry. That hyphen seems to be deliberate, and was kept as-is. 
7870	----	Merged with an earlier text produced by Juliet Sutherland, Thomas Hutchinson and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team [Illustration] TALES OF DARING AND DANGER. [Illustration] [Illustration: SIGHTING THE WRECK OF THE STEAMER.] TALES OF DARING AND DANGER. BY G.A. HENTY, Author of "Yarns on the Beach;" "Sturdy and Strong;" "Facing Death;" "By Sheer Pluck;" "With Clive in India;" &c. _ILLUSTRATED._ [Illustration] LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, 49 & 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C. GLASGOW, EDINBURGH, AND DUBLIN. 1890. CONTENTS. Page BEARS AND DACOITS, 7 THE PATERNOSTERS, 37 A PIPE OF MYSTERY, 71 WHITE-FACED DICK, 99 A BRUSH WITH THE CHINESE, 119 [Illustration] BEARS AND DACOITS. A TALE OF THE GHAUTS. CHAPTER I. A merry party were sitting in the verandah of one of the largest and handsomest bungalows of Poonah. It belonged to Colonel Hastings, colonel of a native regiment stationed there, and at present, in virtue of seniority, commanding a brigade. Tiffin was on, and three or four officers and four ladies had taken their seats in the comfortable cane lounging chairs which form the invariable furniture of the verandah of a well-ordered bungalow. Permission had been duly asked, and granted by Mrs. Hastings, and the cheroots had just begun to draw, when Miss Hastings, a niece of the colonel, who had only arrived the previous week from England, said,-- "Uncle, I am quite disappointed. Mrs. Lyons showed me the bear she has got tied up in their compound, and it is the most wretched little thing, not bigger than Rover, papa's retriever, and it's full-grown. I thought bears were great fierce creatures, and this poor little thing seemed so restless and unhappy that I thought it quite a shame not to let it go." Colonel Hastings smiled rather grimly. "And yet, small and insignificant as that bear is, my dear, it is a question whether he is not as dangerous an animal to meddle with as a man-eating tiger." "What, that wretched little bear, Uncle?" "Yes, that wretched little bear. Any experienced sportsman will tell you that hunting those little bears is as dangerous a sport as tiger-hunting on foot, to say nothing of tiger-hunting from an elephant's back, in which there is scarcely any danger whatever. I can speak feelingly about it, for my career was pretty nearly brought to an end by a bear, just after I entered the army, some thirty years ago, at a spot within a few miles from here. I have got the scars on my shoulder and arm still." "Oh, do tell me all about it," Miss Hastings said; and the request being seconded by the rest of the party, none of whom, with the exception of Mrs. Hastings, had ever heard the story before--for the colonel was somewhat chary of relating this special experience--he waited till they had all drawn up their chairs as close as possible, and then giving two or three vigorous puffs at his cheroot, began as follows:-- "Thirty years ago, in 1855, things were not so settled in the Deccan as they are now. There was no idea of insurrection on a large scale, but we were going through one of those outbreaks of Dacoity, which have several times proved so troublesome. Bands of marauders kept the country in confusion, pouring down on a village, now carrying off three or four of the Bombay money-lenders, who were then, as now, the curse of the country; sometimes making an onslaught upon a body of traders; and occasionally venturing to attack small detachments of troops or isolated parties of police. They were not very formidable, but they were very troublesome, and most difficult to catch, for the peasantry regarded them as patriots, and aided and shielded them in every way. The head-quarters of these gangs of Dacoits were the Ghauts. In the thick bush and deep valleys and gorges there they could always take refuge, while sometimes the more daring chiefs converted these detached peaks and masses of rock, numbers of which you can see as you come up the Ghaut by railway, into almost impregnable fortresses. Many of these masses of rock rise as sheer up from the hillside as walls of masonry, and look at a short distance like ruined castles. Some are absolutely inaccessible; others can only be scaled by experienced climbers; and, although possible for the natives with their bare feet, are impracticable to European troops. Many of these rock fortresses were at various times the head-quarters of famous Dacoit leaders, and unless the summits happened to be commanded from some higher ground within gunshot range they were all but impregnable except by starvation. When driven to bay, these fellows would fight well. "Well, about the time I joined, the Dacoits were unusually troublesome; the police had a hard time of it, and almost lived in the saddle, and the cavalry were constantly called up to help them, while detachments of infantry from the station were under canvas at several places along the top of the Ghauts to cut the bands off from their strongholds, and to aid, if necessary, in turning them out of their rock fortresses. The natives in the valleys at the foot of the Ghauts, who have always been a semi-independent race, ready to rob whenever they saw a chance, were great friends with the Dacoits, and supplied them with provisions whenever the hunt on the Deccan was too hot for them to make raids in that direction. "This is a long introduction, you will say, and does not seem to have much to do with bears; but it is really necessary, as you will see. I had joined about six months when three companies of the regiment were ordered to relieve a wing of the 15th, who had been under canvas at a village some four miles to the north of the point where the line crosses the top of the Ghauts. There were three white officers, and little enough to do, except when a party was sent off to assist the police. We had one or two brushes with the Dacoits, but I was not out on either occasion. However, there was plenty of shooting, and a good many pigs about, so we had very good fun. Of course, as a raw hand, I was very hot for it, and as the others had both passed the enthusiastic age, except for pig-sticking and big game, I could always get away. I was supposed not to go far from camp, because, in the first place, I might be wanted; and, in the second, because of the Dacoits; and Norworthy, who was in command, used to impress upon me that I ought not to go beyond the sound of a bugle. Of course we both knew that if I intended to get any sport I must go further afoot than this; but I merely used to say 'All right, sir, I will keep an ear to the camp,' and he on his part never considered it necessary to ask where the game which appeared on the table came from. But in point of fact, I never went very far, and my servant always had instructions which way to send for me if I was wanted; while as to the Dacoits I did not believe in their having the impudence to come in broad daylight within a mile or two of our camp. I did not often go down the face of the Ghauts. The shooting was good, and there were plenty of bears in those days, but it needed a long day for such an expedition, and in view of the Dacoits who might be scattered about, was not the sort of thing to be undertaken except with a strong party. Norworthy had not given any precise orders about it, but I must admit that he said one day:-- "'Of course you won't be fool enough to think of going down the Ghauts, Hastings?' But I did not look at that as equivalent to a direct order--whatever I should do now," the colonel put in, on seeing a furtive smile on the faces of his male listeners. "However, I never meant to go down, though I used to stand on the edge and look longingly down into the bush and fancy I saw bears moving about in scores. But I don't think I should have gone into their country if they had not come into mine. One day the fellow who always carried my spare gun or flask, and who was a sort of shekarry in a small way, told me he had heard that a farmer, whose house stood near the edge of the Ghauts, some two miles away, had been seriously annoyed by his fruit and corn being stolen by bears. "'I'll go and have a look at the place to-morrow,' I said, 'there is no parade, and I can start early. You may as well tell the mess cook to put up a basket with some tiffin and a bottle of claret, and get a boy to carry it over.' "'The bears not come in day,' Rahman said. "'Of course not,' I replied; 'still I may like to find out which way they come. Just do as you are told.' "The next morning, at seven o'clock, I was at the farmer's spoken of, and there was no mistake as to the bears. A patch of Indian corn had been ruined by them, and two dogs had been killed. The native was in a terrible state of rage and alarm. He said that on moonlight nights he had seen eight of them, and they came and sniffed around the door of the cottage. "'Why don't you fire through the window at them?' I asked scornfully, for I had seen a score of tame bears in captivity, and, like you, Mary, was inclined to despise them, though there was far less excuse for me; for I had heard stories which should have convinced me that, small as he is, the Indian bear is not a beast to be attacked with impunity. Upon walking to the edge of the Ghauts there was no difficulty in discovering the route by which the bears came up to the farm. For a mile to the right and left the ground fell away as if cut with a knife, leaving a precipice of over a hundred feet sheer down; but close by where I was standing was the head of a watercourse, which in time had gradually worn a sort of cleft in the wall, up or down which it was not difficult to make one's way. Further down this little gorge widened out and became a deep ravine, and further still a wide valley, where it opened upon the flats far below us. About half a mile down where the ravine was deepest and darkest was a thick clump of trees and jungle. "'That's where the bears are?' I asked Rahman. He nodded. It seemed no distance. I could get down and back in time for tiffin, and perhaps bag a couple of bears. For a young sportsman the temptation was great. 'How long would it take us to go down and have a shot or two at them?' "'No good go down. Master come here at night, shoot bears when they come up.' "I had thought of that; but, in the first place, it did not seem much sport to shoot the beasts from cover when they were quietly eating, and, in the next place, I knew that Norworthy could not, even if he were willing, give me leave to go out of camp at night. I waited, hesitating for a few minutes, and then I said to myself, 'It is of no use waiting. I could go down and get a bear and be back again while I am thinking of it;' then to Rahman, 'No, come along; we will have a look through that wood anyhow.' "Rahman evidently did not like it. "'Not easy find bear, sahib. He very cunning.' "'Well, very likely we sha'n't find them,' I said, 'but we can try anyhow. Bring that bottle with you; the tiffin basket can wait here till we come back.' In another five minutes I had begun to climb down the watercourse--the shekarry following me. I took the double-barrelled rifle and handed him the shot-gun, having first dropped a bullet down each barrel over the charge. The ravine was steep, but there were bushes to hold on by, and although it was hot work and took a good deal longer than I expected, we at last got down to the place which I had fixed upon as likely to be the bears' home. "'Sahib, climb up top,' Rahman said; 'come down through wood; no good fire at bear when he above.' "I had heard that before; but I was hot, the sun was pouring down, there was not a breath of wind, and it looked a long way up to the top of the wood. "'Give me the claret. It would take too long to search the wood regularly. We will sit down here for a bit, and if we can see anything moving up in the wood, well and good; if not, we will come back again another day with some beaters and dogs.' So saying, I sat down with my back against a rock, at a spot where I could look up among the trees for a long way through a natural vista. I had a drink of claret, and then I sat and watched till gradually I dropped off to sleep. I don't know how long I slept, but it was some time, and I woke up with a sudden start. Rahman, who had, I fancy, been asleep too, also started up. [Illustration: "MY GUN, RAHMAN," I SHOUTED.] "The noise which had aroused us was made by a rolling stone striking a rock; and looking up I saw some fifty yards away, not in the wood, but on the rocky hillside on our side of the ravine, a bear standing, as though unconscious of our presence, snuffing the air. As was natural, I seized my rifle, cocked it, and took aim, unheeding a cry of 'No, no, sahib,' from Rahman. However, I was not going to miss such a chance as this, and I let fly. The beast had been standing sideways to me, and as I saw him fall I felt sure I had hit him in the heart. I gave a shout of triumph, and was about to climb up, when, from behind the rock on which the bear had stood, appeared another growling fiercely; on seeing me, it at once prepared to come down. Stupidly, being taken by surprise, and being new at it, I fired at once at its head. The bear gave a spring, and then--it seemed instantaneous--down it came at me. Whether it rolled down, or slipped down, or ran down, I don't know, but it came almost as if it had jumped straight at me. "'My gun, Rahman,' I shouted, holding out my hand. There was no answer. I glanced round, and found that the scoundrel had bolted. I had time, and only just time, to take a step backwards, and to club my rifle, when the brute was upon me. I got one fair blow at the side of its head, a blow that would have smashed the skull of any civilized beast into pieces, and which did fortunately break the brute's jaw; then in an instant he was upon me, and I was fighting for life. My hunting-knife was out, and with my left hand I had the beast by the throat; while with my right I tried to drive my knife into its ribs. My bullet had gone through his chest. The impetus of his charge had knocked me over, and we rolled on the ground, he tearing with his claws at my shoulder and arm, I stabbing and struggling, my great effort being to keep my knees up so as to protect my body with them from his hind claws. After the first blow with his paw, which laid my shoulder open, I do not think I felt any special pain whatever. There was a strange faint sensation, and my whole energy seemed centered in the two ideas--to strike and to keep my knees up. I knew that I was getting faint, but I was dimly conscious that his efforts, too, were relaxing. His weight on me seemed to increase enormously, and the last idea that flashed across me was that it was a drawn fight. "The next idea of which I was conscious was that I was being carried. I seemed to be swinging about, and I thought I was at sea. Then there was a little jolt and a sense of pain. 'A collision,' I muttered, and opened my eyes. Beyond the fact that I seemed in a yellow world--a bright orange-yellow--my eyes did not help me, and I lay vaguely wondering about it all, till the rocking ceased. There was another bump, and then the yellow world seemed to come to an end; and as the daylight streamed in upon me I fainted again. This time when I awoke to consciousness things were clearer. I was stretched by a little stream. A native woman was sprinkling my face and washing the blood from my wounds; while another, who had with my own knife cut off my coat and shirt, was tearing the latter into strips to bandage my wounds. The yellow world was explained. I was lying on the yellow robe of one of the women. They had tied the ends together, placed a long stick through them, and carried me in the bag-like hammock. They nodded to me when they saw I was conscious, and brought water in a large leaf, and poured it into my mouth. Then one went away for some time, and came back with some leaves and bark. These they chewed and put on my wounds, bound them up with strips of my shirt, and then again knotted the ends of the cloth, and lifting me up, went on as before. "I was sure that we were much lower down the Ghaut than we had been when I was watching for the bears, and we were now going still lower. However, I knew very little Hindustani, nothing of the language the women spoke. I was too weak to stand, too weak even to think much; and I dozed and woke, and dozed again, until, after what seemed to me many hours of travel, we stopped again, this time before a tent. Two or three old women and four or five men came out, and there was great talking between them and the young women--for they were young--who had carried me down. Some of the party appeared angry; but at last things quieted down, and I was carried into the tent. I had fever, and was, I suppose, delirious for days. I afterwards found that for fully a fortnight I had lost all consciousness; but a good constitution and the nursing of the women pulled me round. When once the fever had gone, I began to mend rapidly. I tried to explain to the women that if they would go up to the camp and tell them where I was they would be well rewarded; but although I was sure they understood, they shook their heads, and by the fact that as I became stronger two or three armed men always hung about the tent, I came to the conclusion that I was a sort of prisoner. This was annoying, but did not seem serious. If these people were Dacoits, or, as was more likely, allies of the Dacoits, I could be kept only for ransom or exchange. Moreover, I felt sure of my ability to escape when I got strong, especially as I believed that in the young women who had saved my life, both by bringing me down and by their careful nursing, I should find friends." "Were they pretty, uncle?" Mary Hastings broke in. "Never mind whether they were pretty, Mary; they were better than pretty." "No; but we like to know, uncle." "Well, except for the soft, dark eyes, common to the race, and the good temper and lightheartedness, also so general among Hindu girls, and the tenderness which women feel towards a creature whose life they have saved, whether it is a wounded bird or a drowning puppy, I suppose they were nothing remarkable in the way of beauty, but at the time I know that I thought them charming. CHAPTER II. "Just as I was getting strong enough to walk, and was beginning to think of making my escape, a band of five or six fellows, armed to the teeth, came in, and made signs that I was to go with them. It was evidently an arranged thing, the girls only were surprised, but they were at once turned out, and as we started I could see two crouching figures in the shade with their cloths over their heads. I had a native garment thrown over my shoulders, and in five minutes after the arrival of the fellows found myself on my way. It took us some six hours before we reached our destination, which was one of those natural rock citadels. Had I been in my usual health I could have done the distance in an hour and a half, but I had to rest constantly, and was finally carried rather than helped up. I had gone not unwillingly, for the men were clearly, by their dress, Dacoits of the Deccan, and I had no doubt that it was intended either to ransom or exchange me. "At the foot of this natural castle were some twenty or thirty more robbers, and I was led to a rough sort of arbour in which was lying, on a pile of maize straw, a man who was evidently their chief. He rose and we exchanged salaams. "'What is your name, sahib?' he asked in Mahratta. "'Hastings--Lieutenant Hastings,' I said. 'And yours?' "'Sivajee Punt!' he said. "This was bad. I had fallen into the hands of the most troublesome, most ruthless, and most famous of the Dacoit leaders. Over and over again he had been hotly chased, but had always managed to get away; and when I last heard anything of what was going on four or five troops of native police were scouring the country after him. He gave an order which I did not understand, and a wretched Bombay writer, I suppose a clerk of some money-lender, was dragged forward. Sivajee Punt spoke to him for some time, and the fellow then told me in English that I was to write at once to the officer commanding the troops, telling him that I was in his hands, and should be put to death directly he was attacked. "'Ask him,' I said, 'if he will take any sum of money to let me go?' "Sivajee shook his head very decidedly. "A piece of paper was put before me, and a pen and ink, and I wrote as I had been ordered, adding, however, in French, that I had brought myself into my present position by my own folly, and would take my chance, for I well knew the importance which Government attached to Sivajee's capture. I read out loud all that I had written in English, and the interpreter translated it. Then the paper was folded and I addressed it, 'The Officer Commanding,' and I was given some chupattis and a drink of water, and allowed to sleep. The Dacoits had apparently no fear of any immediate attack. "It was still dark, although morning was just breaking, when I was awakened, and was got up to the citadel. I was hoisted rather than climbed, two men standing above with a rope, tied round my body, so that I was half-hauled, half-pushed up the difficult places, which would have taxed all my climbing powers had I been in health. "The height of this mass of rock was about a hundred feet; the top was fairly flat, with some depressions and risings, and about eighty feet long by fifty wide. It had evidently been used as a fortress in ages past. Along the side facing the hill were the remains of a rough wall. In the centre of a depression was a cistern, some four feet square, lined with stone-work, and in another depression a gallery had been cut, leading to a subterranean store-room or chamber. This natural fortress rose from the face of the hill at a distance of a thousand yards or so from the edge of the plateau, which was fully two hundred feet higher than the top of the rock. In the old days it would have been impregnable, and even at that time it was an awkward place to take, for the troops were armed only with Brown Bess, and rifled cannon were not thought of. Looking round, I could see that I was some four miles from the point where I had descended. The camp was gone; but running my eye along the edge of the plateau I could see the tops of tents a mile to my right, and again two miles to my left; turning round, and looking down into the wide valley, I saw a regimental camp. "It was evident that a vigorous effort was being made to surround and capture the Dacoits, since troops had been brought up from Bombay. In addition to the troops above and below, there would probably be a strong police force, acting on the face of the hill. I did not see all these things at the time, for I was, as soon as I got to the top, ordered to sit down behind the parapet, a fellow armed to the teeth squatting down by me, and signifying that if I showed my head above the stones he would cut my throat without hesitation. There were, however, sufficient gaps between the stones to allow me to have a view of the crest of the Ghaut, while below my view extended down to the hills behind Bombay. It was evident to me now why the Dacoits did not climb up into the fortress. There were dozens of similar crags on the face of the Ghauts, and the troops did not as yet know their whereabouts. It was a sort of blockade of the whole face of the hills which was being kept up, and there were, probably enough, several other bands of Dacoits lurking in the jungle. "There were only two guards and myself on the rock plateau. I discussed with myself the chances of my overpowering them and holding the top of the rock till help came; but I was greatly weakened, and was not a match for a boy, much less for the two stalwart Mahrattas; besides, I was by no means sure that the way I had been brought up was the only possible path to the top. The day passed off quietly. The heat on the bare rock was frightful, but one of the men, seeing how weak and ill I really was, fetched a thick rug from the storehouse, and with the aid of a stick made a sort of lean-to against the wall, under which I lay sheltered from the sun. "Once or twice during the day I heard a few distant musket-shots, and once a sharp heavy outburst of firing. It must have been three or four miles away, but it was on the side of the Ghaut, and showed that the troops or police were at work. My guards looked anxiously in that direction, and uttered sundry curses. When it was dusk, Sivajee and eight of the Dacoits came up. From what they said, I gathered that the rest of the band had dispersed, trusting either to get through the line of their pursuers, or, if caught, to escape with slight punishment, the men who remained being too deeply concerned in murderous outrages to hope for mercy. Sivajee himself handed me a letter, which the man who had taken my note had brought back in reply. Major Knapp, the writer, who was the second in command, said that he could not engage the Government, but that if Lieutenant Hastings was given up the act would certainly dispose the Government to take the most merciful view possible; but that if, on the contrary, any harm was suffered by Lieutenant Hastings, every man taken would be at once hung. Sivajee did not appear put out about it. I do not think he expected any other answer, and imagine that his real object in writing was simply to let them know that I was a prisoner, and so enable him the better to paralyse the attack upon a position which he no doubt considered all but impregnable. "I was given food, and was then allowed to walk as I chose upon the little plateau, two of the Dacoits taking post as sentries at the steepest part of the path, while the rest gathered, chatting and smoking, in the depression in front of the storehouse. It was still light enough for me to see for some distance down the face of the rock, and I strained my eyes to see if I could discern any other spot at which an ascent or descent was possible. The prospect was not encouraging. At some places the face fell sheer away from the edge, and so evident was the impracticability of escape that the only place which I glanced at twice was the western side, that is the one away from the hill. Here it sloped gradually for a few feet. I took off my shoes and went down to the edge. Below, some ten feet, was a ledge, on to which with care I could get down, but below that was a sheer fall of some fifty feet. As a means of escape it was hopeless, but it struck me that if an attack was made I might slip away and get on to the ledge. Once there I could not be seen except by a person standing where I now was, just on the edge of the slope, a spot to which it was very unlikely that anyone would come. "The thought gave me a shadow of hope, and, returning to the upper end of the platform, I lay down, and in spite of the hardness of the rock, was soon asleep. The pain of my aching bones woke me up several times, and once, just as the first tinge of dawn was coming, I thought I could hear movements in the jungle. I raised myself somewhat, and I saw that the sounds had been heard by the Dacoits, for they were standing listening, and some of them were bringing spare fire-arms from the storehouse, in evident preparation for attack. "As I afterwards learned, the police had caught one of the Dacoits trying to effect his escape, and by means of a little of the ingenious torture to which the Indian police then frequently resorted, when their white officers were absent, they obtained from him the exact position of Sivajee's band, and learned the side from which the ascent must be made. That the Dacoit and his band were still upon the slopes of the Ghauts they knew, and were gradually narrowing their circle, but there were so many rocks and hiding-places that the process of searching was a slow one, and the intelligence was so important that the news was off at once to the colonel, who gave orders for the police to surround the rock at daylight and to storm it if possible. The garrison was so small that the police were alone ample for the work, supposing that the natural difficulties were not altogether insuperable. "Just at daybreak there was a distant noise of men moving in the jungle, and the Dacoit half-way down the path fired his gun. He was answered by a shout and a volley. The Dacoits hurried out from the chamber, and lay down on the edge, where, sheltered by a parapet, they commanded the path. They paid no attention to me, and I kept as far away as possible. The fire began--a quiet, steady fire, a shot at a time, and in strong contrast to the rattle kept up from the surrounding jungle; but every shot must have told, as man after man who strove to climb that steep path, fell. It lasted only ten minutes, and then all was quiet again. "The attack had failed, as I knew it must do, for two men could have held the place against an army; a quarter of an hour later a gun from the crest above spoke out, and a round shot whistled above our heads. Beyond annoyance, an artillery fire could do no harm, for the party could be absolutely safe in the store cave. The instant the shot flew overhead, however, Sivajee Punt beckoned to me, and motioned me to take my seat on the wall facing the guns. Hesitation was useless, and I took my seat with my back to the Dacoits and my face to the hill. One of the Dacoits, as I did so, pulled off the native cloth which covered my shoulders, in order that I might be clearly seen. "Just as I took my place another round shot hummed by; but then there was a long interval of silence. With a field-glass every feature must have been distinguishable to the gunners, and I had no doubt that they were waiting for orders as to what to do next. "I glanced round and saw that with the exception of one fellow squatted behind the parapet some half-dozen yards away, clearly as a sentry to keep me in place, all the others had disappeared. Some, no doubt, were on sentry down the path, the others were in the store beneath me. After half an hour's silence the guns spoke out again. Evidently the gunners were told to be as careful as they could, for some of the shots went wide on the left, others on the right. A few struck the rock below me. The situation was not pleasant, but I thought that at a thousand yards they ought not to hit me, and I tried to distract my attention by thinking out what I should do under every possible contingency. "Presently I felt a crash and a shock, and fell backwards to the ground. I was not hurt, and on picking myself up saw that the ball had struck the parapet to the left, just where my guard was sitting, and he lay covered with its fragments. His turban lay some yards behind him. Whether he was dead or not I neither knew nor cared. "I pushed down some of the parapet where I had been sitting, dropped my cap on the edge outside, so as to make it appear that I had fallen over, and then picking up the man's turban, ran to the other end of the platform and scrambled down to the ledge. Then I began to wave my arms about--I had nothing on above the waist--and in a moment I saw a face with a uniform cap peer out through the jungle, and a hand was waved. I made signs to him to make his way to the foot of the perpendicular wall of rock beneath me. I then unwound the turban, whose length was, I knew, amply sufficient to reach to the bottom, and then looked round for something to write on. I had my pencil still in my trousers pocket, but not a scrap of paper. "I picked up a flattish piece of rock and wrote on it, 'Get a rope-ladder quickly, I can haul it up. Ten men in garrison. They are all under cover. Keep on firing to distract their attention." "I tied the stone to the end of the turban, and looked over. A non-commissioned officer of the police was already standing below. I lowered the stone; he took it, waved his hand to me, and was gone. "An hour passed: it seemed an age. The round shots still rang overhead, and the fire was now much more heavy and sustained than before. Presently I again saw a movement in the jungle, and Norworthy's face appeared, and he waved his arm in greeting. "Five minutes more and a party were gathered at the foot of the rock, and a strong rope was tied to the cloth. I pulled it up. A rope-ladder was attached to it, and the top rung was in a minute or two in my hands. To it was tied a piece of paper with the words: 'Can you fasten the ladder?" I wrote on the paper: 'No; but I can hold it for a light weight.' "I put the paper with a stone in the end of the cloth, and lowered it again. Then I sat down, tied the rope round my waist, got my feet against two projections, and waited. There was a jerk, and then I felt some one was coming up the rope-ladder. The strain was far less than I expected, but the native policeman who came up first did not weigh half so much as an average Englishman. There were now two of us to hold. The officer in command of the police came up next, then Norworthy, then a dozen more police. I explained the situation, and we mounted to the upper level. Not a soul was to be seen. Quickly we advanced and took up a position to command the door of the underground chamber; while one of the police waved a white cloth from his bayonet as a signal to the gunners to cease firing. Then the police officer hailed the party within the cave. "'Sivajee Punt! you may as well come out and give yourself up! We are in possession, and resistance is useless!' "A yell of rage and surprise was heard, and the Dacoits, all desperate men, came bounding out, firing as they did so. Half of their number were shot down at once, and the rest, after a short, sharp struggle, were bound hand and foot. "That is pretty well all of the story, I think. Sivajee Punt was one of the killed. The prisoners were all either hung or imprisoned for life. I escaped my blowing-up for having gone down the Ghauts after the bear, because, after all, Sivajee Punt might have defied their force for months had I not done so. "It seemed that that scoundrel Rahman had taken back word that I was killed. Norworthy had sent down a strong party, who found the two dead bears, and who, having searched everywhere without finding any signs of my body, came to the conclusion that I had been found and carried away, especially as they ascertained that natives used that path. They had offered rewards, but nothing was heard of me till my note saying I was in Sivajee's hands arrived." "And did you ever see the women who carried you off?" "No, Mary, I never saw them again. I did, however, after immense trouble, succeed in finding out where it was that I had been taken to. I went down at once, but found the village deserted. Then after much inquiry I found where the people had moved to, and sent messages to the women to come up to the camp, but they never came; and I was reduced at last to sending them down two sets of silver bracelets, necklaces, and bangles, which must have rendered them the envy of all the women on the Ghauts. They sent back a message of grateful thanks, and I never heard of them afterwards. No doubt their relatives, who knew that their connection with the Dacoits was now known, would not let them come. However, I had done all I could, and I have no doubt the women were perfectly satisfied. So you see, my dear, that the Indian bear, small as he is, is an animal which it is as well to leave alone, at any rate when he happens to be up on the side of a hill while you are at the foot." [Illustration] [Illustration] THE PATERNOSTERS. A YACHTING STORY. "And do you really mean that we are to cross by the steamer, Mr. Virtue, while you go over in the _Seabird_? I do not approve of that at all. Fanny, why do you not rebel, and say we won't be put ashore? I call it horrid, after a fortnight on board this dear little yacht, to have to get on to a crowded steamer, with no accommodation and lots of sea-sick women, perhaps, and crying children. You surely cannot be in earnest?" "I do not like it any more than you do, Minnie; but, as Tom says we had better do it, and my husband agrees with him, I am afraid we must submit. Do you really think it is quite necessary, Mr. Virtue? Minnie and I are both good sailors, you know; and we would much rather have a little extra tossing about on board the _Seabird_ than the discomforts of a steamer." "I certainly think that it will be best, Mrs. Grantham. You know very well we would rather have you on board, and that we shall suffer from your loss more than you will by going the other way; but there's no doubt the wind is getting up, and though we don't feel it much here, it must be blowing pretty hard outside. The _Seabird_ is as good a sea-boat as anything of her size that floats; but you don't know what it is to be out in anything like a heavy sea in a thirty-tonner. It would be impossible for you to stay on deck, and we should have our hands full, and should not be able to give you the benefit of our society. Personally, I should not mind being out in the _Seabird_ in any weather, but I would certainly rather not have ladies on board." "You don't think we should scream, or do anything foolish, Mr. Virtue?" Minnie Graham said indignantly. "Not at all, Miss Graham. Still, I repeat, the knowledge that there are women on board, delightful at other times, does not tend to comfort in bad weather. Of course, if you prefer it, we can put off our start till this puff of wind has blown itself out. It may have dropped before morning. It may last some little time. I don't think myself that it will drop, for the glass has fallen, and I am afraid we may have a spell of broken weather." "Oh no; don't put it off," Mrs. Grantham said; "we have only another fortnight before James must be back again in London, and it would be a great pity to lose three or four days perhaps; and we have been looking forward to cruising about among the Channel Islands, and to St. Malo, and all those places. Oh no; I think the other is much the better plan--that is, if you won't take us with you." "It would be bad manners to say that I won't, Mrs. Grantham; but I must say I would rather not. It will be a very short separation. Grantham will take you on shore at once, and as soon as the boat comes back I shall be off. You will start in the steamer this evening, and get into Jersey at nine or ten o'clock to-morrow morning; and if I am not there before you, I shall not be many hours after you." "Well, if it must be it must," Mrs. Grantham said, with an air of resignation. "Come, Minnie, let us put a few things into a hand-bag for to-night. You see the skipper is not to be moved by our pleadings." "That is the worst of you married women, Fanny," Miss Graham said, with a little pout. "You get into the way of doing as you are ordered. I call it too bad. Here have we been cruising about for the last fortnight, with scarcely a breath of wind, and longing for a good brisk breeze and a little change and excitement, and now it comes at last, we are to be packed off in a steamer. I call it horrid of you, Mr. Virtue. You may laugh, but I do." Tom Virtue laughed, but he showed no signs of giving way, and ten minutes later Mr. and Mrs. Grantham and Miss Graham took their places in the gig, and were rowed into Southampton Harbour, off which the _Seabird_ was lying. The last fortnight had been a very pleasant one, and it had cost the owner of the _Seabird_ as much as his guests to come to the conclusion that it was better to break up the party for a few hours. Tom Virtue had, up to the age of five-and-twenty, been possessed of a sufficient income for his wants. He had entered at the bar, not that he felt any particular vocation in that direction, but because he thought it incumbent upon him to do something. Then, at the death of an uncle, he had come into a considerable fortune, and was able to indulge his taste for yachting, which was the sole amusement for which he really cared, to the fullest. He sold the little five-tonner he had formerly possessed, and purchased the _Seabird_. He could well have afforded a much larger craft, but he knew that there was far more real enjoyment in sailing to be obtained from a small craft than a large one, for in the latter he would be obliged to have a regular skipper, and would be little more than a passenger, whereas on board the _Seabird_, although his first hand was dignified by the name of skipper, he was himself the absolute master. The boat carried the aforesaid skipper, three hands, and a steward, and with them he had twice been up the Mediterranean, across to Norway, and had several times made the circuit of the British Isles. He had unlimited confidence in his boat, and cared not what weather he was out in her. This was the first time since his ownership of her that the _Seabird_ had carried lady passengers. His friend Grantham, an old school and college chum, was a hard-working barrister, and Virtue had proposed to him to take a month's holiday on board the _Seabird_. "Put aside your books, old man," he said. "You look fagged and overworked; a month's blow will do you all the good in the world." "Thank you, Tom; I have made up my mind for a month's holiday, but I can't accept your invitation, though I should enjoy it of all things. But it would not be fair to my wife; she doesn't get very much of my society, and she has been looking forward to our having a run together. So I must decline." Virtue hesitated a moment. He was not very fond of ladies' society, and thought them especially in the way on board a yacht; but he had a great liking for his friend's wife, and was almost as much at home in his house as in his own chambers. "Why not bring the wife with you?" he said, as soon as his mind was made up. "It will be a nice change for her too; and I have heard her say that she is a good sailor. The accommodation is not extensive, but the after-cabin is a pretty good size, and I would do all I could to make her comfortable. Perhaps she would like another lady with her; if so by all means bring one. They could have the after-cabin, you could have the little state-room, and I could sleep in the saloon." "It is very good of you, Tom, especially as I know that it will put you out frightfully; but the offer is a very tempting one. I will speak to Fanny, and let you have an answer in the morning." "That will be delightful, James," Mrs. Grantham said, when the invitation was repeated to her. "I should like it of all things; and I am sure the rest and quiet and the sea air will be just the thing for you. It is wonderful, Tom Virtue making the offer; and I take it as a great personal compliment, for he certainly is not what is generally called a lady's man. It is very nice, too, of him to think of my having another lady on board. Whom shall we ask? Oh, I know," she said suddenly; "that will be the thing of all others. We will ask my cousin Minnie; she is full of fun and life, and will make a charming wife for Tom!" James Grantham laughed. "What schemers you all are, Fanny! Now I should call it downright treachery to take anyone on board the _Seabird_ with the idea of capturing its master." "Nonsense, treachery!" Mrs. Grantham said indignantly; "Minnie is the nicest girl I know, and it would do Tom a world of good to have a wife to look after him. Why, he is thirty now, and will be settling down into a confirmed old bachelor before long. It's the greatest kindness we could do him, to take Minnie on board; and I am sure he is the sort of man any girl might fall in love with when she gets to know him. The fact is, he's shy! He never had any sisters, and spends all his time in winter at that horrid club; so that really he has never had any women's society, and even with us he will never come unless he knows we are alone. I call it a great pity, for I don't know a pleasanter fellow than he is. I think it will be doing him a real service in asking Minnie; so that's settled. I will sit down and write him a note." "In for a penny, in for a pound, I suppose," was Tom Virtue's comment when he received Mrs. Grantham's letter, thanking him warmly for the invitation, and saying that she would bring her cousin, Miss Graham, with her, if that young lady was disengaged. As a matter of self-defence he at once invited Jack Harvey, who was a mutual friend of himself and Grantham, to be of the party. "Jack can help Grantham to amuse the women," he said to himself; "that will be more in his line than mine. I will run down to Cowes to-morrow and have a chat with Johnson; we shall want a different sort of stores altogether to those we generally carry, and I suppose we must do her up a bit below." Having made up his mind to the infliction of female passengers, Tom Virtue did it handsomely, and when the party came on board at Ryde they were delighted with the aspect of the yacht below. She had been repainted, the saloon and ladies' cabin were decorated in delicate shades of gray, picked out with gold; and the upholsterer, into whose hands the owner of the _Seabird_ had placed her, had done his work with taste and judgment, and the ladies' cabin resembled a little boudoir. "Why, Tom, I should have hardly known her!" Grantham, who had often spent a day on board the _Seabird_, said. "I hardly know her myself," Tom said, rather ruefully; "but I hope she's all right, Mrs. Grantham, and that you and Miss Graham will find everything you want." "It is charming!" Mrs. Grantham said enthusiastically. "It's awfully good of you, Tom, and we appreciate it; don't we, Minnie? It is such a surprise, too; for James said that while I should find everything very comfortable, I must not expect that a small yacht would be got up like a palace." So a fortnight had passed; they had cruised along the coast as far as Plymouth, anchoring at night at the various ports on the way. Then they had returned to Southampton, and it had been settled that as none of the party, with the exception of Virtue himself, had been to the Channel Islands, the last fortnight of the trip should be spent there. The weather had been delightful, save that there had been some deficiency in wind, and throughout the cruise the _Seabird_ had been under all the sail she could spread. But when the gentlemen came on deck early in the morning a considerable change had taken place; the sky was gray and the clouds flying fast overhead. "We are going to have dirty weather," Tom Virtue said at once. "I don't think it's going to be a gale, but there will be more sea on than will be pleasant for ladies. I tell you what, Grantham; the best thing will be for you to go on shore with the two ladies, and cross by the boat to-night. If you don't mind going directly after breakfast I will start at once, and shall be at St. Helier's as soon as you are." And so it had been agreed, but not, as has been seen, without opposition and protest on the part of the ladies. Mrs. Grantham's chief reason for objecting had not been given. The little scheme on which she had set her mind seemed to be working satisfactorily. From the first day Tom Virtue had exerted himself to play the part of host satisfactorily, and had ere long shaken off any shyness he may have felt towards the one stranger of the party, and he and Miss Graham had speedily got on friendly terms. So things were going on as well as Mrs. Grantham could have expected. No sooner had his guests left the side of the yacht than her owner began to make his preparations for a start. "What do you think of the weather, Watkins?" he asked his skipper. "It's going to blow hard, sir; that's my view of it, and if I was you I shouldn't up anchor to-day. Still, it's just as you likes; the _Seabird_ won't mind it if we don't. She has had a rough time of it before now; still, it will be a case of wet jackets, and no mistake." "Yes, I expect we shall have a rough time of it, Watkins, but I want to get across. We don't often let ourselves be weather-bound, and I am not going to begin it to-day. We had better house the topmast at once, and get two reefs in the main-sail. We can get the other down when we get clear of the island. Get number three jib up, and the leg-of-mutton mizzen; put two reefs in the foresail." Tom and his friend Harvey, who was a good sailor, assisted the crew in reefing down the sails, and a few minutes after the gig had returned and been hoisted in, the yawl was running rapidly down Southampton waters. "We need hardly have reefed quite so closely," Jack Harvey said, as he puffed away at his pipe. "Not yet, Jack; but you will see she has as much as she can carry before long. It's all the better to make all snug before starting; it saves a lot of trouble afterwards, and the extra canvas would not have made ten minutes' difference to us at the outside. We shall have pretty nearly a dead beat down the Solent. Fortunately tide will be running strong with us, but there will be a nasty kick-up there. You will see we shall feel the short choppy seas there more than we shall when we get outside. She is a grand boat in a really heavy sea, but in short waves she puts her nose into it with a will. Now, if you will take my advice, you will do as I am going to do; put on a pair of fisherman's boots and oilskin and sou'-wester. There are several sets for you to choose from below." As her owner had predicted, the _Seabird_ put her bowsprit under pretty frequently in the Solent; the wind was blowing half a gale, and as it met the tide it knocked up a short, angry sea, crested with white heads, and Jack Harvey agreed that she had quite as much sail on her as she wanted. The cabin doors were bolted, and all made snug to prevent the water getting below before they got to the race off Hurst Castle; and it was well that they did so, for she was as much under water as she was above. "I think if I had given way to the ladies and brought them with us they would have changed their minds by this time, Jack," Tom Virtue said, with a laugh. "I should think so," his friend agreed; "this is not a day for a fair-weather sailor. Look what a sea is breaking on the shingles!" "Yes, five minutes there would knock her into matchwood. Another ten minutes and we shall be fairly out; and I sha'n't be sorry; one feels as if one was playing football, only just at present the _Seabird_ is the ball and the waves the kickers." Another quarter of an hour and they had passed the Needles. "That is more pleasant, Jack," as the short, chopping motion was exchanged for a regular rise and fall; "this is what I enjoy--a steady wind and a regular sea. The _Seabird_ goes over it like one of her namesakes; she is not taking a teacupful now over her bows. "Watkins, you may as well take the helm for a spell, while we go down to lunch. I am not sorry to give it up for a bit, for it has been jerking like the kick of a horse. "That's right, Jack, hang up your oilskin there. Johnson, give us a couple of towels; we have been pretty well smothered up there on deck. Now what have you got for us?" "There is some soup ready, sir, and that cold pie you had for dinner yesterday." "That will do; open a couple of bottles of stout." Lunch, over, they went on deck again. "She likes a good blow as well as we do," Virtue said, enthusiastically, as the yawl rose lightly over each wave. "What do you think of it, Watkins? Is the wind going to lull a bit as the sun goes down?" "I think not, sir. It seems to me it's blowing harder than it was." "Then we will prepare for the worst, Watkins; get the try-sail up on deck. When you are ready we will bring her up into the wind and set it. That's the comfort of a yawl, Jack; one can always lie to without any bother, and one hasn't got such a tremendous boom to handle." The try-sail was soon on deck, and then the _Seabird_ was brought up into the wind, the weather fore-sheet hauled aft, the mizzen sheeted almost fore and aft, and the _Seabird_ lay, head to wind, rising and falling with a gentle motion, in strong contrast to her impetuous rushes when under sail. "She would ride out anything like that," her owner said. "Last time we came through the Bay on our way from Gib., we were caught in a gale strong enough to blow the hair off one's head, and we lay to for nearly three days, and didn't ship a bucket of water all the time. Now let us lend a hand to get the main-sail stowed." Ten minutes' work and it was securely fastened and its cover on; two reefs were put in the try-sail. Two hands went to each of the halliards, while, as the sail rose, Tom Virtue fastened the toggles round the mast. "All ready, Watkins?" "All ready, sir." "Slack off the weather fore-sheet, then, and haul aft the leeward. Slack out the mizzen-sheet a little, Jack. That's it; now she's off again, like a duck." The _Seabird_ felt the relief from the pressure of the heavy boom to leeward and rose easily and lightly over the waves. "She certainly is a splendid sea-boat, Tom; I don't wonder you are ready to go anywhere in her. I thought we were rather fools for starting this morning, although I enjoy a good blow; but now I don't care how hard it comes on." By night it was blowing a downright gale. "We will lie to till morning, Watkins. So that we get in by daylight to-morrow evening, that is all we want. See our side-lights are burning well, and you had better get up a couple of blue lights, in case anything comes running up Channel and don't see our lights. We had better divide into two watches; I will keep one with Matthews and Dawson, Mr. Harvey will go in your watch with Nicholls. We had better get the try-sail down altogether, and lie to under the foresail and mizzen, but don't put many lashings on the try-sail, one will be enough, and have it ready to cast off in a moment, in case we want to hoist the sail in a hurry. I will go down and have a glass of hot grog first, and then I will take my watch to begin with. Let the two hands with me go down; the steward will serve them out a tot each. Jack, you had better turn in at once." Virtue was soon on deck again, muffled up in his oilskins. "Now, Watkins, you can go below and turn in." "I sha'n't go below to-night, sir--not to lie down. There's nothing much to do here, but I couldn't sleep, if I did lie down." "Very well; you had better go below and get a glass of grog; tell the steward to give you a big pipe with a cover like this, out of the locker; and there's plenty of chewing tobacco, if the men are short." "I will take that instead of a pipe," Watkins said; "there's nothing like a quid in weather like this, it ain't never in your way, and it lasts. Even with a cover a pipe would soon be out." "Please yourself, Watkins; tell the two hands forward to keep a bright look-out for lights." The night passed slowly. Occasionally a sea heavier than usual came on board, curling over the bow and falling with a heavy thud on the deck, but for the most part the _Seabird_ breasted the waves easily; the bowsprit had been reefed in to its fullest, thereby adding to the lightness and buoyancy of the boat. Tom Virtue did not go below when his friend came up to relieve him at the change of watch, but sat smoking and doing much talking in the short intervals between the gusts. The morning broke gray and misty, driving sleet came along on the wind, and the horizon was closed in as by a dull curtain. "How far can we see, do you think, Watkins?" "Perhaps a couple of miles, sir." "That will be enough. I think we both know the position of every reef to within a hundred yards, so we will shape our course for Guernsey. If we happen to hit it off, we can hold on to St. Helier; but if when we think we ought to be within sight of Guernsey we see nothing of it, we must lie to again, till the storm has blown itself out or the clouds lift. It would never do to go groping our way along with such currents as run among the islands. Put the last reef in the try-sail before you hoist it. I think you had better get the foresail down altogether, and run up the spit-fire jib." The _Seabird_ was soon under way again. "Now, Watkins, you take the helm; we will go down and have a cup of hot coffee, and I will see that the steward has a good supply for you and the hands; but first, do you take the helm, Jack, whilst Watkins and I have a look at the chart, and try and work out where we are, and the course we had better lie for Guernsey." Five minutes were spent over the chart, then Watkins went up and Jack Harvey came down. "You have got the coffee ready, I hope, Johnson?" "Yes, sir, coffee and chocolate. I didn't know which you would like." "Chocolate, by all means. Jack, I recommend the chocolate. Bring two full-sized bowls, Johnson, and put that cold pie on the table, and a couple of knives and forks; never mind about a cloth; but first of all bring a couple of basins of hot water, we shall enjoy our food more after a wash." The early breakfast was eaten, dry coats and mufflers put on, pipes lighted, and they then went up upon deck. Tom took the helm. "What time do you calculate we ought to make Guernsey, Tom?" "About twelve. The wind is freer than it was, and we are walking along at a good pace. Matthews, cast the log, and let's see what we are doing. About seven knots, I should say." "Seven and a quarter, sir," the man said, when he checked the line. "Not a bad guess, Tom; it's always difficult to judge pace in a heavy sea." At eleven o'clock the mist ceased. "That's fortunate," Tom Virtue said; "I shouldn't be surprised if we get a glimpse of the sun between the clouds, presently. Will you get my sextant and the chronometer up, Jack, and put them handy?" Jack Harvey did as he was asked, but there was no occasion to use the instruments, for ten minutes later, Watkins, who was standing near the bow gazing fixedly ahead, shouted: "There's Guernsey, sir, on her lee bow, about six miles away, I should say." "That's it, sure enough," Tom agreed, as he gazed in the direction in which Watkins was pointing. "There's a gleam of sunshine on it, or we shouldn't have seen it yet. Yes, I think you are about right as to the distance. Now let us take its bearings, we may lose it again directly." Having taken the bearings of the island they went below, and marked off their position on the chart, and they shaped their course for Cape Grosnez, the north-western point of Jersey. The gleam of sunshine was transient--the clouds closed in again overhead, darker and grayer than before. Soon the drops of rain came flying before the wind, the horizon closed in, and they could not see half a mile away, but, though the sea was heavy, the _Seabird_ was making capital weather of it, and the two friends agreed that, after all, the excitement of a sail like this was worth a month of pottering about in calms. "We must keep a bright look-out presently," the skipper said; "there are some nasty rocks off the coast of Jersey. We must give them a wide berth. We had best make round to the south of the island, and lay to there till we can pick up a pilot to take us into St. Helier. I don't think it will be worth while trying to get into St. Aubyn's Bay by ourselves." "I think so, too, Watkins, but we will see what it is like before it gets dark; if we can pick up a pilot all the better; if not, we will lie to till morning, if the weather keeps thick; but if it clears so that we can make out all the lights we ought to be able to get into the bay anyhow." An hour later the rain ceased and the sky appeared somewhat clearer. Suddenly Watkins exclaimed, "There is a wreck, sir! There, three miles away to leeward. She is on the Paternosters." "Good heavens! she is a steamer," Tom exclaimed, as he caught sight of her the next time the _Seabird_ lifted on a wave. "Can she be the Southampton boat, do you think?" "Like enough, sir, she may have had it thicker than we had, and may not have calculated enough for the current." "Up helm, Jack, and bear away towards her. Shall we shake out a reef, Watkins?" "I wouldn't, sir; she has got as much as she can carry on her now. We must mind what we are doing, sir; the currents run like a millstream, and if we get that reef under our lee, and the wind and current both setting us on to it, it will be all up with us in no time." "Yes, I know that, Watkins. Jack, take the helm a minute while we run down and look at the chart. "Our only chance, Watkins, is to work up behind the reef, and try and get so that they can either fasten a line to a buoy and let it float down to us, or get into a boat, if they have one left, and drift to us." "They are an awful group of rocks," Watkins said, as they examined the chart; "you see some of them show merely at high tide, and a lot of them are above at low water. It will be an awful business to get among them rocks, sir, just about as near certain death as a thing can be." "Well, it's got to be done, Watkins," Tom said, firmly. "I see the danger as well as you do, but whatever the risk, it must be tried. Mr. Grantham and the two ladies went on board by my persuasion, and I should never forgive myself if anything happened to them. But I will speak to the men." He went on deck again and called the men to him. "Look here, lads; you see that steamer ashore on the Paternosters. In such a sea as this she may go to pieces in half an hour. I am determined to make an effort to save the lives of those on board. As you can see for yourselves there is no lying to weather of her, with the current and wind driving us on to the reef; we must beat up from behind. Now, lads, the sea there is full of rocks, and the chances are ten to one we strike on to them and go to pieces; but, anyhow I am going to try; but I won't take you unless you are willing. The boat is a good one, and the zinc chambers will keep her afloat if she fills; well managed, you ought to be able to make the coast of Jersey in her. Mr. Harvey, Watkins, and I can handle the yacht, so you can take the boat if you like." The men replied that they would stick to the yacht wherever Mr. Virtue chose to take her, and muttered something about the ladies, for the pleasant faces of Mrs. Grantham and Miss Graham had, during the fortnight they had been on board, won the men's hearts. "Very well, lads, I am glad to find you will stick by me; if we pull safely through it I will give each of you three months' wages. Now set to work with a will and get the gig out. We will tow her after us, and take to her if we make a smash of it." They were now near enough to see the white breakers, in the middle of which the ship was lying. She was fast breaking up. The jagged outline showed that the stern had been beaten in. The masts and funnel were gone, and the waves seemed to make a clean breach over her, almost hiding her from sight in a white cloud of spray. "Wood and iron can't stand that much longer," Jack Harvey said; "another hour and I should say there won't be two planks left together." "It is awful, Jack; I would give all I have in the world if I had not persuaded them to go on board. Keep her off a little more, Watkins." The _Seabird_ passed within a cable's-length of the breakers at the northern end of the reef. "Now, lads, take your places at the sheets, ready to haul or let go as I give the word." So saying, Tom Virtue took his place in the bow, holding on by the forestay. The wind was full on the _Seabird's_ beam as she entered the broken water. Here and there the dark heads of the rocks showed above the water. These were easy enough to avoid, the danger lay in those hidden beneath its surface, and whose position was indicated only by the occasional break of a sea as it passed over them. Every time the _Seabird_ sank on a wave those on board involuntarily held their breath, but the water here was comparatively smooth, the sea having spent its first force upon the outer reef. With a wave of his hand Tom directed the helmsman as to his course, and the little yacht was admirably handled through the dangers. "I begin to think we shall do it," Tom said to Jack Harvey, who was standing close to him. "Another five minutes and we shall be within reach of her." It could be seen now that there was a group of people clustered in the bow of the wreck. Two or three light lines were coiled in readiness for throwing. "Now, Watkins," Tom said, going aft, "make straight for the wreck. I see no broken water between us and them, and possibly there may be deep water under their bow." It was an anxious moment, as, with the sails flattened in, the yawl forged up nearly in the eye of the wind towards the wreck. Her progress was slow, for she was now stemming the current. Tom stood with a coil of line in his hand in the bow. "You get ready to throw, Jack, if I miss." Nearer and nearer the yacht approached the wreck, until the bowsprit of the latter seemed to stand almost over her. Then Tom threw the line. It fell over the bowsprit, and a cheer broke from those on board the wreck and from the sailors of the _Seabird_. A stronger line was at once fastened to that thrown, and to this a strong hawser was attached. "Down with the helm, Watkins. Now, lads, lower away the try-sail as fast as you can. Now, one of you, clear that hawser as they haul on it. Now out with the anchors." These had been got into readiness; it was not thought that they would get any hold on the rocky bottom, still they might catch on a projecting ledge, and at any rate their weight and that of the chain cable would relieve the strain upon the hawser. Two sailors had run out on the bowsprit of the wreck as soon as the line was thrown, and the end of the hawser was now on board the steamer. "Thank God, there's Grantham!" Jack Harvey exclaimed; "do you see him waving his hand?" "I see him," Tom said, "but I don't see the ladies." "They are there, no doubt," Jack said, confidently; "crouching down, I expect. He would not be there if they weren't, you may be sure. Yes, there they are; those two muffled-up figures. There, one of them has thrown back her cloak and is waving her arm." The two young men waved their caps. "Are the anchors holding, Watkins? There's a tremendous strain on that hawser." "I think so, sir; they are both tight." "Put them round the windlass, and give a turn or two, we must relieve the strain on that hawser." Since they had first seen the wreck the waves had made great progress in the work of destruction, and the steamer had broken in two just aft of the engines. "Get over the spare spars, Watkins, and fasten them to float in front of her bows like a triangle. Matthews, catch hold of that boat-hook and try to fend off any piece of timber that comes along. You get hold of the sweeps, lads, and do the same. They would stave her in like a nut-shell if they struck her. "Thank God, here comes the first of them!" Those on board the steamer had not been idle. As soon as the yawl was seen approaching slings were prepared, and no sooner was the hawser securely fixed, than the slings were attached to it and a woman placed in them. The hawser was tight and the descent sharp, and without a check the figure ran down to the deck of the _Seabird_. She was lifted out of the slings by Tom and Jack Harvey, who found she was an old woman and had entirely lost consciousness. "Two of you carry her down below; tell Johnson to pour a little brandy down her throat. Give her some hot soup as soon as she comes to." Another woman was lowered and helped below. The next to descend was Mrs. Grantham. "Thank God, you are rescued!" Tom said, as he helped her out of the sling. "Thank God, indeed," Mrs. Grantham said, "and thank you all! Oh, Tom, we have had a terrible time of it, and had lost all hope till we saw your sail, and even then the captain said that he was afraid nothing could be done. Minnie was the first to make out it was you, and then we began to hope. She has been so brave, dear girl. Ah! here she comes." But Minnie's firmness came to an end now that she felt the need for it was over. She was unable to stand when she was lifted from the slings; and Tom carried her below. "Are there any more women, Mrs. Grantham?" "No; there was only one other lady passenger and the stewardess." "Then you had better take possession of your own cabin. I ordered Johnson to spread a couple more mattresses and some bedding on the floor, so you will all four be able to turn in. There's plenty of hot coffee and soup. I should advise soup with two or three spoonfuls of brandy in it. Now, excuse me; I must go upon deck." Twelve men descended by the hawser, one of them with both legs broken by the fall of the mizzen. The last to come was the captain. "Is that all?" Tom asked. "That is all," the captain said. "Six men were swept overboard when she first struck, and two were killed by the fall of the funnel. Fortunately we had only three gentlemen passengers and three ladies on board. The weather looked so wild when we started that no one else cared about making the passage. God bless you, sir, for what you have done! Another half-hour and it would have been all over with us. But it seems like a miracle your getting safe through the rocks to us." "It was fortunate indeed that we came along," Tom said; "three of the passengers are dear friends of mine; and as it was by my persuasion that they came across in the steamer instead of in the yacht, I should never have forgiven myself if they had been lost. Take all your men below, captain; you will find plenty of hot soup there. Now, Watkins, let us be off; that steamer won't hold together many minutes longer, so there's no time to lose. We will go back as we came. Give me a hatchet. Now, lads, two of you stand at the chain-cables; knock out the shackles the moment I cut the hawser. Watkins, you take the helm and let her head pay off till the jib fills. Jack, you lend a hand to the other two, and get up the try-sail again as soon as we are free." In a moment all were at their stations. The helm was put on the yacht, and she payed off on the opposite tack to that on which she had before been sailing. As soon as the jib filled, Tom gave two vigorous blows with his hatchet on the hawser, and, as he lifted his hand for a third, it parted. Then came the sharp rattle of the chains as they ran round the hawser-holes. The try-sail was hoisted and sheeted home, and the _Seabird_ was under way again. Tom, as before, conned the ship from the bow. Several times she was in close proximity to the rocks, but each time she avoided them. A shout of gladness rose from all on deck as she passed the last patch of white water. Then she tacked and bore away for Jersey. Tom had now time to go down below and look after his passengers. They consisted of the captain and two sailors--the sole survivors of those who had been on deck when the vessel struck--three male passengers, and six engineers and stokers. "I have not had time to shake you by the hand before, Tom," Grantham said, as Tom Virtue entered; "and I thought you would not want me on deck at present. God bless you, old fellow! we all owe you our lives." "How did it happen, captain?" Tom asked, as the captain also came up to him. "It was the currents, I suppose," the captain said; "it was so thick we could not see a quarter of a mile any way. The weather was so wild I would not put into Guernsey, and passed the island without seeing it. I steered my usual course, but the gale must have altered the currents, for I thought I was three miles away from the reef, when we saw it on our beam, not a hundred yards away. It was too late to avoid it then, and in another minute we ran upon it, and the waves were sweeping over us. Every one behaved well. I got all, except those who had been swept overboard or crushed by the funnel, up into the bow of the ship, and there we waited. There was nothing to be done. No boat would live for a moment in the sea on that reef, and all I could advise was, that when she went to pieces every one should try to get hold of a floating fragment; but I doubt whether a man would have been alive a quarter of an hour after she went to pieces." "Perhaps, captain, you will come on deck with me and give me the benefit of your advice. My skipper and I know the islands pretty well, but no doubt you know them a good deal better, and I don't want another mishap." But the _Seabird_ avoided all further dangers, and as it became dark, the lights of St. Helier's were in sight, and an hour later the yacht brought up in the port and landed her involuntary passengers. A fortnight afterwards the _Seabird_ returned to England, and two months later Mrs. Grantham had the satisfaction of being present at the ceremony which was the successful consummation of her little scheme in inviting Minnie Graham to be her companion on board the _Seabird_. "Well, my dear," her husband said, when she indulged in a little natural triumph, "I do not say that it has not turned out well, and I am heartily glad for both Tom and Minnie's sake it has so; but you must allow that it very nearly had a disastrous ending, and I think if I were you I should leave matters to take their natural course in future. I have accepted Tom's invitation for the same party to take a cruise in the _Seabird_ next summer, but I have bargained that next time a storm is brewing up we shall stop quietly in port." "That's all very well, James," Mrs. Grantham said saucily; "but you must remember that Tom Virtue will only be first-mate of the _Seabird_ in future." "That I shall be able to tell you better, my dear, after our next cruise. All husbands are not as docile and easily led as I am." [Illustration] A PIPE OF MYSTERY. A jovial party were gathered round a blazing fire in an old grange near Warwick. The hour was getting late; the very little ones had, after dancing round the Christmas-tree, enjoying the snapdragon, and playing a variety of games, gone off to bed; and the elder boys and girls now gathered round their uncle, Colonel Harley, and asked him for a story--above all, a ghost story. "But I have never seen any ghosts," the colonel said, laughing; "and, moreover, I don't believe in them one bit. I have travelled pretty well all over the world, I have slept in houses said to be haunted, but nothing have I seen--no noises that could not be accounted for by rats or the wind have I ever heard. I have never"--and here he paused--"never but once met with any circumstances or occurrence that could not be accounted for by the light of reason, and I know you prefer hearing stories of my own adventures to mere invention." "Yes, uncle. But what was the 'once' when circumstances happened that you could not explain?" "It's rather a long story," the colonel said, "and it's getting late." "Oh! no, no, uncle; it does not matter a bit how late we sit up on Christmas Eve, and the longer the story is, the better; and if you don't believe in ghosts, how can it be a story of something you could not account for by the light of nature?" "You will see when I have done," the colonel said. "It is rather a story of what the Scotch call second sight, than one of ghosts. As to accounting for it, you shall form your own opinion when you have heard me to the end. "I landed in India in '50, and after going through the regular drill work, marched with a detachment up country to join my regiment, which was stationed at Jubbalpore, in the very heart of India. It has become an important place since; the railroad across India passes through it, and no end of changes have taken place; but at that time it was one of the most out-of-the-way stations in India, and, I may say, one of the most pleasant. It lay high, there was capital boating on the Nerbudda, and, above all, it was a grand place for sport, for it lay at the foot of the hill country, an immense district, then but little known, covered with forests and jungle, and abounding with big game of all kinds. "My great friend there was a man named Simmonds. He was just of my own standing; we had come out in the same ship, had marched up the country together, and were almost like brothers. He was an old Etonian, I an old Westminster, and we were both fond of boating, and, indeed, of sport of all kinds. But I am not going to tell you of that now. The people in these hills are called Gonds, a true hill tribe--that is to say, aborigines, somewhat of the negro type. The chiefs are of mixed blood, but the people are almost black. They are supposed to accept the religion of the Hindus, but are in reality deplorably ignorant and superstitious. Their priests are a sort of compound of a Brahmin priest and a negro fetish man, and among their principal duties is that of charming away tigers from the villages by means of incantations. There, as in other parts of India, were a few wandering fakirs, who enjoyed an immense reputation for holiness and wisdom. The people would go to them from great distances for charms or predictions, and believed in their power with implicit faith. "At the time when we were at Jubbalpore, there was one of these fellows, whose reputation altogether eclipsed that of his rivals, and nothing could be done until his permission had been asked and his blessing obtained. All sorts of marvellous stories were constantly coming to our ears of the unerring foresight with which he predicted the termination of diseases, both in men and animals; and so generally was he believed in that the colonel ordered that no one connected with the regiment should consult him, for these predictions very frequently brought about their own fulfilment; for those who were told that an illness would terminate fatally, lost all hope, and literally lay down to die. "However, many of the stories that we heard could not be explained on these grounds, and the fakir and his doings were often talked over at mess, some of the officers scoffing at the whole business, others maintaining that some of these fakirs had, in some way or another, the power of foretelling the future, citing many well authenticated anecdotes upon the subject. "The older officers were the believers, we young fellows were the scoffers. But for the well-known fact that it is very seldom indeed that these fakirs will utter any of their predictions to Europeans, some of us would have gone to him, to test his powers. As it was, none of us had ever seen him. "He lived in an old ruined temple, in the middle of a large patch of jungle at the foot of the hills, some ten or twelve miles away. "I had been at Jubbalpore about a year, when I was woke up one night by a native, who came in to say that at about eight o'clock a tiger had killed a man in his village, and had dragged off the body. "Simmonds and I were constantly out after tigers, and the people in all the villages within twenty miles knew that we were always ready to pay for early information. This tiger had been doing great damage, and had carried off about thirty men, women, and children. So great was the fear of him, indeed, that the people in the neighbourhood he frequented scarcely dared stir out of doors, except in parties of five or six. We had had several hunts after him, but, like all man-eaters, he was old and awfully crafty; and although we got several snap shots at him, he had always managed to save his skin. "In a quarter of an hour after the receipt of the message, Charley Simmonds and I were on the back of an elephant, which was our joint property; our shekarry, a capital fellow, was on foot beside us, and with the native trotting on ahead as guide we went off at the best pace of old Begaum, for that was the elephant's name. The village was fifteen miles away, but we got there soon after daybreak, and were received with delight by the population. In half an hour the hunt was organized; all the male population turned out as beaters, with sticks, guns, tom-toms, and other instruments for making a noise. "The trail was not difficult to find. A broad path, with occasional smears of blood, showed where he had dragged his victim through the long grass to a cluster of trees a couple of hundred yards from the village. "We scarcely expected to find him there, but the villagers held back, while we went forward with cocked rifles. We found, however, nothing but a few bones and a quantity of blood. The tiger had made off at the approach of daylight into the jungle, which was about two miles distant. We traced him easily enough, and found that he had entered a large ravine, from which several smaller ones branched off. "It was an awkward place, as it was next to impossible to surround it with the number of people at our command. We posted them at last all along the upper ground, and told them to make up in noise what they wanted in numbers. At last all was ready, and we gave the signal. However, I am not telling you a hunting story, and need only say that we could neither find nor disturb him. In vain we pushed Begaum through the thickest of the jungle which clothed the sides and bottom of the ravine, while the men shouted, beat their tom-toms, and showered imprecations against the tiger himself and his ancestors up to the remotest generations. "The day was tremendously hot, and, after three hours' march, we gave it up for a time, and lay down in the shade, while the shekarries made a long examination of the ground all round the hillside, to be sure that he had not left the ravine. They came back with the news that no traces could be discovered, and that, beyond a doubt, he was still there. A tiger will crouch up in an exceedingly small clump of grass or bush, and will sometimes almost allow himself to be trodden on before moving. However, we determined to have one more search, and if that should prove unsuccessful, to send off to Jubbalpore for some more of the men to come out with elephants, while we kept up a circle of fires, and of noises of all descriptions, so as to keep him a prisoner until the arrival of the reinforcements. Our next search was no more successful than our first had been; and having, as we imagined, examined every clump and crevice in which he could have been concealed, we had just reached the upper end of the ravine, when we heard a tremendous roar, followed by a perfect babel of yells and screams from the natives. "The outburst came from the mouth of the ravine, and we felt at once that he had escaped. We hurried back to find, as we had expected, that the tiger was gone. He had burst out suddenly from his hiding-place, had seized a native, torn him horribly, and had made across the open plain. "This was terribly provoking, but we had nothing to do but follow him. This was easy enough, and we traced him to a detached patch of wood and jungle, two miles distant. This wood was four or five hundred yards across, and the exclamations of the people at once told us that it was the one in which stood the ruined temple of the fakir of whom I have been telling you. I forgot to say, that as the tiger broke out one of the village shekarries had fired at, and, he declared, wounded him. "It was already getting late in the afternoon, and it was hopeless to attempt to beat the jungle that night. We therefore sent off a runner with a note to the colonel, asking him to send the work-elephants, and to allow a party of volunteers to march over at night, to help surround the jungle when we commenced beating it in the morning. "We based our request upon the fact that the tiger was a notorious man-eater, and had been doing immense damage. We then had a talk with our shekarry, sent a man off to bring provisions for the people out with us, and then set them to work cutting sticks and grass to make a circle of fires. "We both felt much uneasiness respecting the fakir, who might be seized at any moment by the enraged tiger. The natives would not allow that there was any cause for fear, as the tiger would not dare to touch so holy a man. Our belief in the respect of the tiger for sanctity was by no means strong, and we determined to go in and warn him of the presence of the brute in the wood. It was a mission which we could not intrust to anyone else, for no native would have entered the jungle for untold gold; so we mounted the Begaum again, and started. The path leading towards the temple was pretty wide, and as we went along almost noiselessly, for the elephant was too well trained to tread upon fallen sticks, it was just possible we might come upon the tiger suddenly, so we kept our rifles in readiness in our hands. "Presently we came in sight of the ruins. No one was at first visible; but at that very moment the fakir came out from the temple. He did not see or hear us, for we were rather behind him and still among the trees, but at once proceeded in a high voice to break into a sing-song prayer. He had not said two words before his voice was drowned in a terrific roar, and in an instant the tiger had sprung upon him, struck him to the ground, seized him as a cat would a mouse, and started off with him at a trot. The brute evidently had not detected our presence, for he came right towards us. We halted the Begaum, and with our fingers on the triggers, awaited the favourable moment. He was a hundred yards from us when he struck down his victim; he was not more than fifty when he caught sight of us. He stopped for an instant in surprise. Charley muttered, 'Both barrels, Harley,' and as the beast turned to plunge into the jungle, and so showed us his side, we sent four bullets crashing into him, and he rolled over lifeless. "We went up to the spot, made the Begaum give him a kick, to be sure that he was dead, and then got down to examine the unfortunate fakir. The tiger had seized him by the shoulder, which was terribly torn, and the bone broken. He was still perfectly conscious. "We at once fired three shots, our usual signal that the tiger was dead, and in a few minutes were surrounded by the villagers, who hardly knew whether to be delighted at the death of their enemy, or to grieve over the injury to the fakir. We proposed taking the latter to our hospital at Jubbalpore, but this he positively refused to listen to. However we finally persuaded him to allow his arm to be set and the wounds dressed in the first place by our regimental surgeon, after which he could go to one of the native villages and have his arm dressed in accordance with his own notions. A litter was soon improvised, and away we went to Jubbalpore, which we reached about eight in the evening. "The fakir refused to enter the hospital, so we brought out a couple of trestles, laid the litter upon them, and the surgeon set his arm and dressed his wounds by torch-light, when he was lifted into a dhoolie, and his bearers again prepared to start for the village. "Hitherto he had only spoken a few words; but he now briefly expressed his deep gratitude to Simmonds and myself. We told him that we would ride over to see him shortly, and hoped to find him getting on rapidly. Another minute and he was gone. "It happened that we had three or four fellows away on leave or on staff duty, and several others knocked up with fever just about this time, so that the duty fell very heavily upon the rest of us, and it was over a month before we had time to ride over to see the fakir. "We had heard he was going on well; but we were surprised, on reaching the village, to find that he had already returned to his old abode in the jungle. However, we had made up our minds to see him, especially as we had agreed that we would endeavour to persuade him to do a prediction for us; so we turned our horses' heads towards the jungle. We found the fakir sitting on a rock in front of the temple, just where he had been seized by the tiger. He rose as we rode up. "'I knew that you would come to-day, sahibs, and was joyful in the thought of seeing those who have preserved my life.' "'We are glad to see you looking pretty strong again, though your arm is still in a sling,' I said, for Simmonds was not strong in Hindustani. "'How did you know that we were coming?' I asked, when we had tied up our horses. "'Siva has given to his servant to know many things,' he said quietly. "'Did you know beforehand that the tiger was going to seize you?' I asked. "'I knew that a great danger threatened, and that Siva would not let me die before my time had come.' "'Could you see into our future?' I asked. "The fakir hesitated, looked at me for a moment earnestly to see if I was speaking in mockery, and then said: "'The sahibs do not believe in the power of Siva or of his servants. They call his messengers impostors, and scoff at them when they speak of the events of the future.' "'No, indeed,' I said. 'My friend and I have no idea of scoffing. We have heard of so many of your predictions coming true, that we are really anxious that you should tell us something of the future.' "The fakir nodded his head, went into the temple, and returned in a minute or two with two small pipes used by the natives for opium-smoking, and a brazier of burning charcoal. The pipes were already charged. He made signs to us to sit down, and took his place in front of us. Then he began singing in a low voice, rocking himself to and fro, and waving a staff which he held in his hand. Gradually his voice rose, and his gesticulations and actions became more violent. So far as I could make out, it was a prayer to Siva that he would give some glimpse of the future which might benefit the sahibs who had saved the life of his servant. Presently he darted forward, gave us each a pipe, took two pieces of red-hot charcoal from the brazier in his fingers, without seeming to know that they were warm, and placed them in the pipes; then he recommenced his singing and gesticulations. "A glance at Charley, to see if, like myself, he was ready to carry the thing through, and then I put the pipe to my lips. I felt at once that it was opium, of which I had before made experiment, but mixed with some other substance, which was, I imagine, haschish, a preparation of hemp. A few puffs, and I felt a drowsiness creeping over me. I saw, as through a mist, the fakir swaying himself backwards and forwards, his arms waving, and his face distorted. Another minute, and the pipe slipped from my fingers, and I fell back insensible. "How long I lay there I do not know. I woke with a strange and not unpleasant sensation, and presently became conscious that the fakir was gently pressing, with a sort of shampooing action, my temples and head. When he saw that I opened my eyes he left me, and performed the same process upon Charley. In a few minutes he rose from his stooping position, waved his hand in token of adieu, and walked slowly back into the temple. "As he disappeared I sat up; Charley did the same. "We stared at each other for a minute without speaking, and then Charley said: "'This is a rum go, and no mistake, old man.' "'You're right, Charley. My opinion is, we've made fools of ourselves. Let's be off out of this.' "We staggered to our feet, for we both felt like drunken men, made our way to our horses, poured a mussuk of water over our heads, took a drink of brandy from our flasks, and then feeling more like ourselves, mounted and rode out of the jungle. "'Well, Harley, if the glimpse of futurity which I had is true, all I can say is that it was extremely unpleasant.' "'That was just my case, Charley.' "'My dream, or whatever you like to call it, was about a mutiny of the men.' "'You don't say so, Charley; so was mine. This is monstrously strange, to say the least of it. However, you tell your story first, and then I will tell mine.' "'It was very short,' Charley said. 'We were at mess--not in our present mess-room--we were dining with the fellows of some other regiment. Suddenly, without any warning, the windows were filled with a crowd of Sepoys, who opened fire right and left into us. Half the fellows were shot down at once; the rest of us made a rush to our swords just as the niggers came swarming into the room. There was a desperate fight for a moment. I remember that Subadar Pirán--one of the best native officers in the regiment, by the way--made a rush at me, and I shot him through the head with a revolver. At the same moment a ball hit me, and down I went. At the moment a Sepoy fell dead across me, hiding me partly from sight. The fight lasted a minute or two longer. I fancy a few fellows escaped, for I heard shots outside. Then the place became quiet. In another minute I heard a crackling, and saw that the devils had set the mess-room on fire. One of our men, who was lying close by me, got up and crawled to the window, but he was shot down the moment he showed himself. I was hesitating whether to do the same or to lie still and be smothered, when suddenly I rolled the dead sepoy off, crawled into the ante-room half-suffocated by smoke, raised the lid of a very heavy trap-door, and stumbled down some steps into a place, half storehouse half cellar, under the mess-room. How I knew about it being there I don't know. The trap closed over my head with a bang. That is all I remember.' "'Well, Charley, curiously enough my dream was also about an extraordinary escape from danger, lasting, like yours, only a minute or two. The first thing I remember--there seems to have been something before, but what, I don't know--I was on horseback, holding a very pretty but awfully pale girl in front of me. We were pursued by a whole troop of Sepoy cavalry, who were firing pistol-shots at us. We were not more than seventy or eighty yards in front, and they were gaining fast, just as I rode into a large deserted temple. In the centre was a huge stone figure. I jumped off my horse with the lady, and as I did so she said, 'Blow out my brains, Edward; don't let me fall alive into their hands.' "'Instead of answering, I hurried her round behind the idol, pushed against one of the leaves of a flower in the carving, and the stone swung back, and showed a hole just large enough to get through, with a stone staircase inside the body of the idol, made no doubt for the priest to go up and give responses through the mouth. I hurried the girl through, crept in after her, and closed the stone, just as our pursuers came clattering into the courtyard. That is all I remember.' "'Well, it is monstrously rum,' Charley said, after a pause. 'Did you understand what the old fellow was singing about before he gave us the pipes?' "'Yes; I caught the general drift. It was an entreaty to Siva to give us some glimpse of futurity which might benefit us.' "We lit our cheroots and rode for some miles at a brisk canter without remark. When we were within a short distance of home we reined up. "'I feel ever so much better,' Charley said. 'We have got that opium out of our heads now. How do you account for it all, Harley?' "'I account for it in this way, Charley. The opium naturally had the effect of making us both dream, and as we took similar doses of the same mixture, under similar circumstances, it is scarcely extraordinary that it should have effected the same portion of the brain, and caused a certain similarity in our dreams. In all nightmares something terrible happens, or is on the point of happening; and so it was here. Not unnaturally in both our cases, our thoughts turned to soldiers. If you remember there was a talk at mess some little time since, as to what would happen in the extremely unlikely event of the sepoys mutinying in a body. I have no doubt that was the foundation of both our dreams. It is all natural enough when we come to think it over calmly. I think, by the way, we had better agree to say nothing at all about it in the regiment.' "'I should think not,' Charley said. 'We should never hear the end of it; they would chaff us out of our lives.' "We kept our secret, and came at last to laugh over it heartily when we were together. Then the subject dropped, and by the end of a year had as much escaped our minds as any other dream would have done. Three months after the affair the regiment was ordered down to Allahabad, and the change of place no doubt helped to erase all memory of the dream. Four years after we had left Jubbalpore we went to Beerapore. The time is very marked in my memory, because the very week we arrived there, your aunt, then Miss Gardiner, came out from England, to her father, our colonel. The instant I saw her I was impressed with the idea that I knew her intimately. I recollected her face, her figure, and the very tone of her voice, but wherever I had met her I could not conceive. Upon the occasion of my first introduction to her, I could not help telling her that I was convinced that we had met, and asking her if she did not remember it. No, she did not remember, but very likely she might have done so, and she suggested the names of several people at whose houses we might have met. I did not know any of them. Presently she asked how long I had been out in India? "'Six years,' I said. "'And how old, Mr. Harley,' she said, 'do you take me to be?' "I saw in one instant my stupidity, and was stammering out an apology, when she went on,-- "'I am very little over eighteen, Mr. Harley, although I evidently look ever so many years older; but papa can certify to my age; so I was only twelve when you left England.' "I tried in vain to clear matters up. Your aunt would insist that I took her to be forty, and the fun that my blunder made rather drew us together, and gave me a start over the other fellows at the station, half of whom fell straightway in love with her. Some months went on, and when the mutiny broke out we were engaged to be married. It is a proof of how completely the opium-dreams had passed out of the minds of both Simmonds and myself, that even when rumours of general disaffection among the Sepoys began to be current, they never once recurred to us; and even when the news of the actual mutiny reached us, we were just as confident as were the others of the fidelity of our own regiment. It was the old story, foolish confidence and black treachery. As at very many other stations, the mutiny broke out when we were at mess. Our regiment was dining with the 34th Bengalees. Suddenly, just as dinner was over, the window was opened, and a tremendous fire poured in. Four or five men fell dead at once, and the poor colonel, who was next to me, was shot right through the head. Every one rushed to his sword and drew his pistol--for we had been ordered to carry pistols as part of our uniform. I was next to Charley Simmonds as the Sepoys of both regiments, headed by Subadar Pirán, poured in at the windows. "'I have it now,' Charley said; 'it is the scene I dreamed.' "As he spoke he fired his revolver at the subadar, who fell dead in his tracks. "A Sepoy close by levelled his musket and fired. Charley fell, and the fellow rushed forward to bayonet him. As he did so I sent a bullet through his head, and he fell across Charley. It was a wild fight for a minute or two, and then a few of us made a sudden rush together, cut our way through the mutineers, and darted through an open window on to the parade. There were shouts, shots, and screams from the officers' bungalows, and in several places flames were already rising. What became of the other men I knew not; I made as hard as I could tear for the colonel's bungalow. Suddenly I came upon a sowar sitting on his horse watching the rising flames. Before he saw me I was on him, and ran him through. I leapt on his horse and galloped down to Gardiner's compound. I saw lots of Sepoys in and around the bungalow, all engaged in looting. I dashed into the compound. "'May! May!' I shouted. 'Where are you?' "I had scarcely spoken before a dark figure rushed out of a clump of bushes close by with a scream of delight. "In an instant she was on the horse before me, and shooting down a couple of fellows who made a rush at my reins, I dashed out again. Stray shots were fired after us. But fortunately the Sepoys were all busy looting, most of them had laid down their muskets, and no one really took up the pursuit. I turned off from the parade-ground, dashed down between the hedges of two compounds, and in another minute we were in the open country. "Fortunately, the cavalry were all down looting their own lines, or we must have been overtaken at once. May happily had fainted as I lifted her on to my horse--happily, because the fearful screams that we heard from the various bungalows almost drove me mad, and would probably have killed her, for the poor ladies were all her intimate friends. "I rode on for some hours, till I felt quite safe from any immediate pursuit, and then we halted in the shelter of a clump of trees. "By this time I had heard May's story. She had felt uneasy at being alone, but had laughed at herself for being so, until upon her speaking to one of the servants he had answered in a tone of gross insolence, which had astonished her. She at once guessed that there was danger, and the moment that she was alone caught up a large, dark carriage rug, wrapped it round her so as to conceal her white dress, and stole out into the verandah. The night was dark, and scarcely had she left the house than she heard a burst of firing across at the mess-house. She at once ran in among the bushes and crouched there, as she heard the rush of men into the room she had just left. She heard them searching for her, but they were looking for a white dress, and her dark rug saved her. What she must have suffered in the five minutes between the firing of the first shots and my arrival, she only knows. May had spoken but very little since we started. I believe that she was certain that her father was dead, although I had given an evasive answer when she asked me; and her terrible sense of loss, added to the horror of that time of suspense in the garden, had completely stunned her. We waited in the tope until the afternoon, and then set out again. "We had gone but a short distance when we saw a body of the rebel cavalry in pursuit. They had no doubt been scouring the country generally, and the discovery was accidental. For a short time we kept away from them, but this could not be for long, as our horse was carrying double. I made for a sort of ruin I saw at the foot of a hill half a mile away. I did so with no idea of the possibility of concealment. My intention was simply to get my back to a rock and to sell my life as dearly as I could, keeping the last two barrels of the revolver for ourselves. Certainly no remembrance of my dream influenced me in any way, and in the wild whirl of excitement I had not given a second thought to Charley Simmonds' exclamation. As we rode up to the ruins only a hundred yards ahead of us, May said,-- "'Blow out my brains, Edward; don't let me fall alive into their hands.' "A shock of remembrance shot across me. The chase, her pale face, the words, the temple--all my dream rushed into my mind. "'We are saved,' I cried, to her amazement, as we rode into the courtyard, in whose centre a great figure was sitting. "I leapt from the horse, snatched the mussuk of water from the saddle, and then hurried May round the idol, between which and the rock behind, there was but just room to get along. "Not a doubt entered my mind but that I should find the spring as I had dreamed. Sure enough there was the carving, fresh upon my memory as if I had seen it but the day before. I placed my hand on the leaflet without hesitation, a solid stone moved back, I hurried my amazed companion in, and shut to the stone. I found, and shot to, a massive bolt, evidently placed to prevent the door being opened by accident or design when anyone was in the idol. "At first it seemed quite dark, but a faint light streamed in from above; we made our way up the stairs, and found that the light came through a number of small holes pierced in the upper part of the head, and through still smaller holes lower down, not much larger than a good-sized knitting-needle could pass through. These holes, we afterwards found, were in the ornaments round the idol's neck. The holes enlarged inside, and enabled us to have a view all round. "The mutineers were furious at our disappearance, and for hours searched about. Then, saying that we must be hidden somewhere, and that they would wait till we came out, they proceeded to bivouac in the courtyard of the temple. "We passed four terrible days, but on the morning of the fifth a scout came in to tell the rebels that a column of British troops marching on Delhi would pass close by the temple. They therefore hastily mounted and galloped off. "Three quarters of an hour later we were safe among our own people. A fortnight afterwards your aunt and I were married. It was no time for ceremony then; there were no means of sending her away; no place where she could have waited until the time for her mourning for her father was over. So we were married quietly by one of the chaplains of the troops, and, as your story-books say, have lived very happily ever after." "And how about Mr. Simmonds, uncle? Did he get safe off too?" "Yes, his dream came as vividly to his mind as mine had done. He crawled to the place where he knew the trap-door would be, and got into the cellar. Fortunately for him there were plenty of eatables there, and he lived there in concealment for a fortnight. After that he crawled out, and found the mutineers had marched for Delhi. He went through a lot, but at last joined us before that city. We often talked over our dreams together, and there was no question that we owed our lives to them. Even then we did not talk much to other people about them, for there would have been a lot of talk, and inquiry, and questions, and you know fellows hate that sort of thing. So we held our tongues. Poor Charley's silence was sealed a year later at Lucknow, for on the advance with Lord Clyde he was killed. "And now, boys and girls, you must run off to bed. Five minutes more and it will be Christmas-day. So you see, Frank, that although I don't believe in ghosts, I have yet met with a circumstance which I cannot account for." "It is very curious anyhow, uncle, and beats ghost stories into fits." "I like it better, certainly," one of the girls said, "for we can go to bed without being afraid of dreaming about it." "Well, you must not talk any more now. Off to bed, off to bed," Colonel Harley said, "or I shall get into terrible disgrace with your fathers and mothers, who have been looking very gravely at me for the last three quarters of an hour." [Illustration] [Illustration] WHITE-FACED DICK, A STORY OF PINE-TREE GULCH. How Pine-tree Gulch got its name no one knew, for in the early days every ravine and hillside was thickly covered with pines. It may be that a tree of exceptional size caught the eye of the first explorer, that he camped under it, and named the place in its honour; or, may be, some fallen giant lay in the bottom and hindered the work of the first prospectors. At any rate, Pine-tree Gulch it was, and the name was as good as any other. The pine-trees were gone now. Cut up for firing, or for the erection of huts, or the construction of sluices, but the hillside was ragged with their stumps. The principal camp was at the mouth of the Gulch, where the little stream, which scarce afforded water sufficient for the cradles in the dry season, but which was a rushing torrent in winter, joined the Yuba. The best ground was at the junction of the streams, and lay, indeed, in the Yuba valley rather than in the Gulch. At first most gold had been found higher up, but there was here comparatively little depth down to the bed-rock, and as the ground became exhausted the miners moved down towards the mouth of the Gulch. They were doing well as a whole, how well no one knew, for miners are chary of giving information as to what they are making; still, it was certain they were doing well, for the bars were doing a roaring trade, and the store-keepers never refused credit--a proof in itself that the prospects were good. The flat at the mouth of the Gulch was a busy scene, every foot was good paying stuff, for in the eddy, where the torrents in winter rushed down into the Yuba, the gold had settled down and lay thick among the gravel. But most of the parties were sinking, and it was a long way down to the bed-rock; for the hills on both sides sloped steeply, and the Yuba must here at one time have rushed through a narrow gorge, until, in some wild freak, it brought down millions of tons of gravel, and resumed its course seventy feet above its former level. A quarter of a mile higher up a ledge of rock ran across the valley, and over it in the old time the Yuba had poured in a cascade seventy feet deep into the ravine. But the rock now was level with the gravel, only showing its jagged points here and there above it. This ledge had been invaluable to the diggers: without it they could only have sunk their shafts with the greatest difficulty, for the gravel would have been full of water, and even with the greatest pains in puddling and timber-work the pumps would scarcely have sufficed to keep it down as it rose in the bottom of the shafts. But the miners had made common cause together, and giving each so many ounces of gold or so many day's work had erected a dam thirty feet high along the ledge of rock, and had cut a channel for the Yuba along the lower slopes of the valley. Of course, when the rain set in, as everybody knew, the dam would go, and the river diggings must be abandoned till the water subsided and a fresh dam was made; but there were two months before them yet, and every one hoped to be down to the bed-rock before the water interrupted their work. The hillside, both in the Yuba Valley and for some distance along Pine-tree Gulch, was dotted by shanties and tents; the former constructed for the most part of logs roughly squared, the walls being some three feet in height, on which the sharp sloping roof was placed, thatched in the first place with boughs, and made all snug, perhaps, with an old sail stretched over all. The camp was quiet enough during the day. The few women were away with their washing at the pools, a quarter of a mile up the Gulch, and the only persons to be seen about were the men told off for cooking for their respective parties. But in the evening the camp was lively. Groups of men in red shirts and corded trousers tied at the knee, in high boots, sat round blazing fires, and talked of their prospects or discussed the news of the luck at other camps. The sound of music came from two or three plank erections which rose conspicuously above the huts of the diggers, and were bright externally with the glories of white and coloured paints. To and from these men were always sauntering, and it needed not the clink of glasses and the sound of music to tell that they were the bars of the camp. Here, standing at the counter, or seated at numerous small tables, men were drinking villainous liquor, smoking and talking, and paying but scant attention to the strains of the fiddle or the accordion, save when some well-known air was played, when all would join in a boisterous chorus. Some were always passing in or out of a door which led into a room behind. Here there was comparative quiet, for men were gambling, and gambling high. Going backwards and forwards with liquors into the gambling-room of the Imperial Saloon, which stood just where Pine-tree Gulch opened into Yuba valley, was a lad, whose appearance had earned for him the name of White-faced Dick. White-faced Dick was not one of those who had done well at Pine-tree Gulch; he had come across the plains with his father, who had died when half-way over, and Dick had been thrown on the world to shift for himself. Nature had not intended him for the work, for he was a delicate, timid lad; what spirits he originally had having been years before beaten out of him by a brutal father. So far, indeed, Dick was the better rather than the worse for the event which had left him an orphan. They had been travelling with a large party for mutual security against Indians and Mormons, and so long as the journey lasted Dick had got on fairly well. He was always ready to do odd jobs, and as the draught cattle were growing weaker and weaker, and every pound of weight was of importance, no one grudged him his rations in return for his services; but when the company began to descend the slopes of the Sierra Nevada they began to break up, going off by twos and threes to the diggings, of which they heard such glowing accounts. Some, however, kept straight on to Sacramento, determining there to obtain news as to the doings at all the different places, and then to choose that which seemed to offer the best prospects of success. Dick proceeded with them to the town, and there found himself alone. His companions were absorbed in the busy rush of population, and each had so much to provide and arrange for, that none gave a thought to the solitary boy. However, at that time no one who had a pair of hands, however feeble, to work need starve in Sacramento; and for some weeks Dick hung around the town doing odd jobs, and then, having saved a few dollars, determined to try his luck at the diggings, and started on foot with a shovel on his shoulder and a few day's provisions slung across it. Arrived at his destination, the lad soon discovered that gold-digging was hard work for brawny and seasoned men, and after a few feeble attempts in spots abandoned as worthless he gave up the effort, and again began to drift; and even in Pine-tree Gulch it was not difficult to get a living. At first he tried rocking cradles, but the work was far harder than it appeared. He was standing ankle deep in water from morning till night, and his cheeks grew paler, and his strength, instead of increasing, seemed to fade away. Still, there were jobs within his strength. He could keep a fire alight and watch a cooking-pot, he could carry up buckets of water or wash a flannel shirt, and so he struggled on, until at last some kind-hearted man suggested to him that he should try to get a place at the new saloon which was about to be opened. "You are not fit for this work, young 'un, and you ought to be at home with your mother; if you like I will go up with you this evening to Jeffries. I knew him down on the flats, and I daresay he will take you on. I don't say as a saloon is a good place for a boy, still you will always get your bellyful of victuals and a dry place to sleep in, if it's only under a table. What do you say?" Dick thankfully accepted the offer, and on Red George's recommendation was that evening engaged. His work was not hard now, for till the miners knocked off there was little doing in the saloon; a few men would come in for a drink at dinner-time, but it was not until the lamps were lit that business began in earnest, and then for four or five hours Dick was busy. A rougher or healthier lad would not have minded the work, but to Dick it was torture; every nerve in his body thrilled whenever rough miners cursed him for not carrying out their orders more quickly, or for bringing them the wrong liquors, which, as his brain was in a whirl with the noise, the shouting, and the multiplicity of orders, happened frequently. He might have fared worse had not Red George always stood his friend, and Red George was an authority in Pine-tree Gulch--powerful in frame, reckless in bearing and temper, he had been in a score of fights and had come off them, if not unscathed, at least victorious. He was notoriously a lucky digger, but his earnings went as fast as they were made, and he was always ready to open his belt and give a bountiful pinch of dust to any mate down on his luck. One evening Dick was more helpless and confused than usual. The saloon was full, and he had been shouted at and badgered and cursed until he scarcely knew what he was doing. High play was going on in the saloon, and a good many men were clustered round the table. Red George was having a run of luck, and there was a big pile of gold dust on the table before him. One of the gamblers who was losing had ordered old rye, and instead of bringing it to him, Dick brought a tumbler of hot liquor which someone else had called for. With an oath the man took it up and threw it in his face. "You cowardly hound!" Red George exclaimed. "Are you man enough to do that to a man?" "You bet," the gambler, who was a new arrival at Pine-tree Gulch, replied; and picking up an empty glass, he hurled it at Red George. The by-standers sprang aside, and in a moment the two men were facing each other with outstretched pistols. The two reports rung out simultaneously: Red George sat down unconcernedly with a streak of blood flowing down his face, where the bullet had cut a furrow in his cheek; the stranger fell back with the bullet hole in the centre of his forehead. The body was carried outside, and the play continued as if no interruption had taken place. They were accustomed to such occurrences in Pine-tree Gulch, and the piece of ground at the top of the hill, that had been set aside as a burial place, was already dotted thickly with graves, filled in almost every instance by men who had died, in the local phraseology, "with their boots on." Neither then nor afterwards did Red George allude to the subject to Dick, whose life after this signal instance of his championship was easier than it had hitherto been, for there were few in Pine-tree Gulch who cared to excite Red George's anger; and strangers going to the place were sure to receive a friendly warning that it was best for their health to keep their tempers over any shortcomings on the part of White-faced Dick. Grateful as he was for Red George's interference on his behalf, Dick felt the circumstance which had ensued more than anyone else in the camp. With others it was the subject of five minutes' talk, but Dick could not get out of his head the thought of the dead man's face as he fell back. He had seen many such frays before, but he was too full of his own troubles for them to make much impression upon him. But in the present case he felt as if he himself was responsible for the death of the gambler; if he had not blundered this would not have happened. He wondered whether the dead man had a wife and children, and, if so, were they expecting his return? Would they ever hear where he had died, and how? But this feeling, which, tired out as he was when the time came for closing the bar, often prevented him from sleeping for hours, in no way lessened his gratitude and devotion towards Red George, and he felt that he could die willingly if his life would benefit his champion. Sometimes he thought, too, that his life would not be much to give, for in spite of shelter and food, the cough which he had caught while working in the water still clung to him, and, as his employer said to him angrily one day-- "Your victuals don't do you no good, Dick; you get thinner and thinner, and folks will think as I starve you. Darned if you ain't a disgrace to the establishment." The wind was whistling down the gorges, and the clouds hung among the pine-woods which still clothed the upper slopes of the hills, and the diggers, as they turned out one morning, looked up apprehensively. "But it could not be," they assured each other. Every one knew that the rains were not due for another month yet; it could only be a passing shower if it rained at all. But as the morning went on, men came in from camps higher up the river, and reports were current that it had been raining for the last two days among the upper hills; while those who took the trouble to walk across to the new channel could see for themselves at noon that it was filled very nigh to the brim, the water rushing along with thick and turbid current. But those who repeated the rumours, or who reported that the channel was full, were summarily put down. Men would not believe that such a calamity as a flood and the destruction of all their season's work could be impending. There had been some showers, no doubt, as there had often been before, but it was ridiculous to talk of anything like rain a month before its time. Still, in spite of these assertions, there was uneasiness at Pine-tree Gulch, and men looked at the driving clouds above and shook their heads before they went down to the shafts to work after dinner. When the last customer had left and the bar was closed, Dick had nothing to do till evening, and he wandered outside and sat down on a stump, at first looking at the work going on in the valley, then so absorbed in his own thoughts that he noticed nothing, not even the driving mist which presently set in. He was calculating that he had, with his savings from his wages and what had been given him by the miners, laid by eighty dollars. When he got another hundred and twenty he would go; he would make his way down to San Francisco, and then by ship to Panama and up to New York, and then west again to the village where he was born. There would be people there who would know him, and who would give him work, for his mother's sake. He did not care what it was; anything would be better than this. Then his thoughts came back to Pine-tree Gulch, and he started to his feet. Could he be mistaken? Were his eyes deceiving him? No; among the stones and boulders of the old bed of the Yuba there was the gleam of water, and even as he watched it he could see it widening out. He started to run down the hill to give the alarm, but before he was half-way he paused, for there were loud shouts, and a scene of bustle and confusion instantly arose. The cradles were deserted, and the men working on the surface loaded themselves with their tools and made for the high ground, while those at the windlasses worked their hardest to draw up their comrades below. A man coming down from above stopped close to Dick, with a low cry, and stood gazing with a white scared face. Dick had worked with him; he was one of the company to which Red George belonged. "What is it, Saunders?" "My God! they are lost," the man replied. "I was at the windlass when they shouted up to me to go up and fetch them a bottle of rum. They had just struck it rich, and wanted a drink on the strength of it." Dick understood at once. Red George and his mates were still in the bottom of the shaft, ignorant of the danger which was threatening them. "Come on," he cried; "we shall be in time yet," and at the top of his speed dashed down the hill, followed by Saunders. "What is it, what is it?" asked parties of men mounting the hill. "Red George's gang are still below." Dick's eyes were fixed on the water. There was a broad band now of yellow with a white edge down the centre of the stony flat, and it was widening with terrible rapidity. It was scarce ten yards from the windlass at the top of Red George's shaft when Dick, followed closely by Saunders, reached it. "Come up, mates; quick, for your lives! The river is rising; you will be flooded out directly. Every one else has gone!" As he spoke he pulled at the rope by which the bucket was hanging, and the handles of the windlass flew round rapidly as it descended. When it had run out, Dick and he grasped the handles. "All right below?" An answering call came up, and the two began their work, throwing their whole strength into it. Quickly as the windlass revolved, it seemed an endless time to Dick before the bucket came up, and the first man stepped out. It was not Red George. Dick had hardly expected it would be. Red George would be sure to see his two mates up before him, and the man uttered a cry of alarm as he saw the water, now within a few feet of the mouth of the shaft. It was a torrent now, for not only was it coming through the dam, but it was rushing down in cascades from the new channel. Without a word the miner placed himself facing Dick and the moment the bucket was again down, the three grasped the handles. But quickly as they worked, the edge of the water was within a few inches of the shaft when the next man reached the surface; but again the bucket descended before the rope tightened. However, the water had began to run over the lip--at first in a mere trickle, and then, almost instantaneously, in a cascade, which grew larger and larger. The bucket was half-way up when a sound like thunder was heard, the ground seemed to tremble under their feet, and then at the turn of the valley above, a great wave of yellow water, crested with foam, was seen tearing along at the speed of a race-horse. "The dam has burst!" Saunders shouted. "Run for your lives, or we are all lost!" The three men dropped the handles and ran at full speed towards the shore, while loud shouts to Dick to follow came from the crowd of men standing on the slope. But the boy still grasped the handles, and with lips tightly closed, still toiled on. Slowly the bucket ascended, for Red George was a heavy man; then suddenly the weight slackened, and the handle went round faster. The shaft was filling, the water had reached the bucket, and had risen to Red George's neck, so that his weight was no longer on the rope. So fast did the water pour in, that it was not half a minute before the bucket reached the surface, and Red George sprang out. There was but time for one exclamation, and then the great wave struck them. Red George was whirled like a straw in the current; but he was a strong swimmer, and at a point where the valley widened out, half a mile lower, he struggled to shore. Two days later the news reached Pine-tree Gulch that a boy's body had been washed ashore twenty miles down, and ten men, headed by Red George, went and brought it solemnly back to Pine-tree Gulch. There, among the stumps of pine-trees, a grave was dug, and there, in the presence of the whole camp, White-faced Dick was laid to rest. Pine-tree Gulch is a solitude now, the trees are growing again, and none would dream that it was once a busy scene of industry; but if the traveller searches among the pine-trees, he will find a stone with the words: "Here lies White-faced Dick, who died to save Red George. 'What can a man do more than give his life for a friend?'" The text was the suggestion of an ex-clergyman working as a miner in Pine-tree Gulch. Red George worked no more at the diggings, but after seeing the stone laid in its place, went east, and with what little money came to him when the common fund of the company was divided after the flood on the Yuba, bought a small farm, and settled down there; but to the end of his life he was never weary of telling those who would listen to it the story of Pine-tree Gulch. [Illustration] [Illustration] A BRUSH WITH THE CHINESE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. It was early in December that H.M.S. _Perseus_ was cruising off the mouth of the Canton River. War had been declared with China in consequence of her continued evasions of the treaty she had made with us, and it was expected that a strong naval force would soon gather to bring her to reason. In the meantime the ships on the station had a busy time of it, chasing the enemy's junks when they ventured to show themselves beyond the reach of the guns of their forts, and occasionally having a brush with the piratical boats which took advantage of the general confusion to plunder friend as well as foe. The _Perseus_ had that afternoon chased two Government junks up a creek. The sun had already set when they took refuge there, and the captain did not care to send his boats after them in the dark, as many of the creeks ran up for miles into the flat country; and as they not unfrequently had many arms or branches, the boats might, in the dark, miss the junks altogether. Orders were issued that four boats should be ready for starting at daybreak the next morning. The _Perseus_ anchored off the mouth of the creek, and two boats were ordered to row backwards and forwards off its mouth all night to insure that the enemy did not slip out in the darkness. Jack Fothergill, the senior midshipman, was commanding the gig, and two of the other midshipmen were going in the pinnace and launch, commanded respectively by the first lieutenant and the master. The three other midshipmen of the _Perseus_ were loud in their lamentations that they were not to take share in the fun. "You can't all go, you know," Fothergill said, "and it's no use making a row about it; the captain has been very good to let three of us go." "It's all very well for you, Jack," Percy Adcock, the youngest of the lads, replied, "because you are one of those chosen; and it is not so hard for Simmons and Linthorpe, because they went the other day in the boat that chased those junks under shelter of the guns of their battery, but I haven't had a chance for ever so long." "What fun was there in chasing the junks?" Simmons said. "We never got near the brutes till they were close to their battery, and then just as the first shot came singing from their guns, and we thought that we were going to have some excitement, the first lieutenant sung out 'Easy all,' and there was nothing for it but to turn round and to row for the ship, and a nice hot row it was--two hours and a half in a broiling sun. Of course I am not blaming Oliphant, for the captain's orders were strict that we were not to try to cut the junks out if they got under the guns of any of their batteries. Still it was horribly annoying, and I do think the captain might have remembered what beastly luck we had last time, and given us a chance to-morrow." "It is clear we could not all go," Fothergill said, "and naturally enough the captain chose the three seniors. Besides, if you did have bad luck last time, you had your chance, and I don't suppose we shall have anything more exciting now; these fellows always set fire to their junks and row for the shore directly they see us, after firing a shot or two wildly in our direction." "Well, Jack, if you don't expect any fun," Simmons replied, "perhaps you wouldn't mind telling the first lieutenant you do not care for going, and that I am very anxious to take your place. Perhaps he will be good enough to allow me to relieve you." "A likely thing that!" Fothergill laughed. "No, Tom, I am sorry you are not going, but you must make the best of it till another chance comes." "Don't you think, Jack," Percy Adcock said to his senior in a coaxing tone later on, "you could manage to smuggle me into the boat with you?" "Not I, Percy. Suppose you got hurt, what would the captain say then? And firing as wildly as the Chinese do, a shot is just as likely to hit your little carcase as to lodge in one of the sailors. No, you must just make the best of it, Percy, and I promise you that next time there is a boat expedition, if you are not put in, I will say a good word to the first luff for you." "That promise is better than nothing," the boy said; "but I would a deal rather go this time and take my chance next." "But you see you can't, Percy, and there's no use talking any more about it. I really do not expect there will be any fighting. Two junks would hardly make any opposition to the boats of the ship, and I expect we shall be back by nine o'clock with the news that they were well on fire before we came up." Percy Adcock, however, was determined, if possible, to go. He was a favourite among the men, and when he spoke to the bow oar of the gig, the latter promised to do anything he could to aid him to carry out his wishes. "We are to start at daybreak, Tom, so that it will be quite dark when the boats are lowered. I will creep into the gig before that and hide myself as well as I can under your thwart, and all you have got to do is to take no notice of me. When the boat is lowered I think they will hardly make me out from the deck, especially as you will be standing up in the bow holding on with the boat-hook till the rest get on board." "Well, sir, I will do my best; but if you are caught you must not let out that I knew anything about it." "I won't do that," Percy said. "I don't think there is much chance of my being noticed until we get on board the junks, and then they won't know which boat I came off in, and the first lieutenant will be too busy to blow me up. Of course I shall get it when I am on board again, but I don't mind that so that I see the fun. Besides, I want to send home some things to my sister, and she will like them all the better if I can tell her I captured them on board some junks we seized and burnt." The next morning the crews mustered before daybreak. Percy had already taken his place under the bow thwart of the gig. The davits were swung overboard, and two men took their places in her as she was lowered down by the falls. As soon as she touched the water the rest of the crew clambered down by the ladder and took their places; then Fothergill took his seat in the stern, and the boat pushed off and lay a few lengths away from the ship until the heavier boats put off. As soon as they were under way Percy crawled out from his hiding-place and placed himself in the bow, where he was sheltered by the body of the oarsmen from Fothergill's sight. Day was just breaking now, but it was still dark on the water, and the boat rowed very slowly until it became lighter. Percy could just make out the shores of the creek on both sides; they were but two or three feet above the level of the water, and were evidently submerged at high tide. The creek was about a hundred yards wide, and the lad could not see far ahead, for it was full of sharp windings and turnings. Here and there branches joined it, but the boats were evidently following the main channel. After another half-hour's rowing the first lieutenant suddenly gave the order, "Easy all," and the men, looking over their shoulders, saw a village a quarter of a mile ahead, with the two junks they had chased the night before lying in front of it. Almost at the same moment a sudden uproar was heard--drums were beaten and gongs sounded. "They are on the look-out for us," the first lieutenant said. "Mr. Mason, do you keep with me and attack the junk highest up the river; Mr. Bellew and Mr. Fothergill, do you take the one lower down. Row on, men." The oars all touched the water together, and the four boats leapt forward. In a minute a scattering fire of gingals and matchlocks was opened from the junks, and the bullets pattered on the water round the boats. Percy was kneeling up in the bow now. As they passed a branch channel three or four hundred yards from the village, he started and leapt to his feet. "There are four or five junks in that passage, Fothergill; they are poling out." The first lieutenant heard the words. "Row on, men; let us finish with these craft ahead before the others get out. This must be that piratical village we have heard about, Mr. Mason, as lying up one of these creeks; that accounts for those two junks not going higher up. I was surprised at seeing them here, for they might guess that we should try to get them this morning. Evidently they calculated on catching us in a trap." Percy was delighted at finding that, in the excitement caused by his news, the first lieutenant had forgotten to take any notice of his being there without orders, and he returned a defiant nod to the threat conveyed by Fothergill shaking his fist at him. As they neared the junks the fire of those on board redoubled, and was aided by that of many villagers gathered on the bank of the creek. Suddenly from a bank of rushes four cannons were fired. A ball struck the pinnace, smashing in her side. The other boats gathered hastily round and took her crew on board, and then dashed at the junks, which were but a hundred yards distant. The valour of the Chinese evaporated as they saw the boats approaching, and scores of them leapt overboard and swam for shore. In another minute the boats were alongside and the crews scrambling up the sides of the junks. A few Chinamen only attempted to oppose them. These were speedily overcome, and the British had now time to look round, and saw that six junks crowded with men had issued from the side creek and were making towards them. "Let the boats tow astern," the lieutenant ordered. "We should have to run the gauntlet of that battery on shore if we were to attack them, and might lose another boat before we reached their side. We will fight them here." The junks approached, those on board firing their guns, yelling and shouting, while the drums and gongs were furiously beaten. "They will find themselves mistaken, Percy, if they think they are going to frighten us with all that row," Fothergill said. "You young rascal, how did you get on board the boat without being seen? The captain will be sure to suspect I had a hand in concealing you." The tars were now at work firing the gingals attached to the bulwarks and the matchlocks, with which the deck was strewn, at the approaching junks. As they took steady aim, leaning their pieces on the bulwarks, they did considerable execution among the Chinamen crowded on board the junks, while the shot of the Chinese, for the most part, whistled far overhead; but the guns of the shore battery, which had now been slewed round to bear upon them, opened with a better aim, and several shots came crashing into the sides of the two captured junks. "Get ready to board, lads!" Lieutenant Oliphant shouted. "Don't wait for them to board you, but the moment they come alongside lash their rigging to ours and spring on board them." The leading junk was now about twenty yards away, and presently grated alongside. Half-a-dozen sailors at once sprang into her rigging with ropes, and after lashing the junks together leaped down upon her deck, where Fothergill was leading the gig's crew and some of those rescued from the pinnace, while Mr. Bellew, with another party, had boarded her at the stern. Several of the Chinese fought stoutly, but the greater part lost heart at seeing themselves attacked by the "white devils," instead of, as they expected, overwhelming them by their superior numbers. Many began at once to jump overboard, and after two or three minutes' sharp fighting, the rest either followed their example or were beaten below. Fothergill looked round. The other junk had been attacked by two of the enemy, one on each side, and the little body of sailors were gathered in her waist, and were defending themselves against an overwhelming number of the enemy. The other three piratical junks had been carried somewhat up the creek by the tide that was sweeping inward, and could not for the moment take part in the fight. "Mr. Oliphant is hard pressed, sir." He asked the master: "Shall we take to the boats?" "That will be the best plan," Mr. Bellew replied. "Quick, lads, get the boats alongside and tumble in; there is not a moment to be lost." The crew at once sprang to the boats and rowed to the other junk, which was but some thirty yards away. The Chinese, absorbed in their contest with the crew of the pinnace, did not perceive the new-comers until they gained the deck, and with a shout fell furiously upon them. In their surprise and consternation the pirates did not pause to note that they were still five to one superior in number, but made a precipitate rush for their own vessels. The English at once took the offensive. The first lieutenant with his party boarded one, while the new-comers leapt on to the deck of the other. The panic which had seized the Chinese was so complete that they attempted no resistance whatever, but sprang overboard in great numbers and swam to the shore, which was but twenty yards away, and in three minutes the English were in undisputed possession of both vessels. "Back again, Mr. Fothergill, or you will lose the craft you captured," Lieutenant Oliphant said; "they have already cut her free." The Chinese, indeed, who had been beaten below by the boarding party, had soon perceived the sudden departure of their captors, and gaining the deck again had cut the lashings which fastened them to the other junk, and were proceeding to hoist their sails. They were too late, however. Almost before the craft had way on her Fothergill and his crew were alongside. The Chinese did not wait for the attack, but at once sprang overboard and made for the shore. The other three junks, seeing the capture of their comrades, had already hoisted their sails and were making up the creek. Fothergill dropped an anchor, left four of his men in charge, and rowed back to Mr. Oliphant. "What shall we do next, sir?" "We will give those fellows on shore a lesson, and silence their battery. Two men have been killed since you left. We must let the other junks go for the present. Four of my men were killed and eleven wounded before Mr. Bellew and you came to our assistance. The Chinese were fighting pluckily up to that time, and it would have gone very hard with us if you had not been at hand; the beggars will fight when they think they have got it all their own way. But before we land we will set fire to the five junks we have taken. Do you return and see that the two astern are well lighted, Mr. Fothergill; Mr. Mason will see to these three. When you have done your work take to your boat and lay off till I join you; keep the junks between you and the shore, to protect you from the fire of the rascals there." "I cannot come with you, I suppose, Fothergill?" Percy Adcock said, as the midshipman was about to descend into his boat again. "Yes, come along, Percy. It doesn't matter what you do now. The captain will be so pleased when he hears that we have captured and burnt five junks, that you will get off with a very light wigging, I imagine." "That's just what I was thinking, Jack. Has it not been fun?" "You wouldn't have thought it fun if you had got one of those matchlock balls in your body. There are a good many of our poor fellows just at the present moment who do not see anything funny in the affair at all. Here we are; clamber up." The crew soon set to work under Fothergill's orders. The sails were cut off the masts and thrown down into the hold; bamboos, of which there were an abundance down there, were heaped over them, a barrel of oil was poured over the mass, and the fire then applied. "That will do, lads. Now take to your boats and let's make a bonfire of the other junk." In ten minutes both vessels were a sheet of flame, and the boat was lying a short distance from them waiting for further operations. The inhabitants of the village, furious at the failure of the plan which had been laid for the destruction of the "white devils," kept up a constant fusilade, which, however, did no harm, for the gig was completely sheltered by the burning junks close to her from their missiles. "There go the others!" Percy exclaimed after a minute or two, as three columns of smoke arose simultaneously from the other junks, and the sailors were seen dropping into their boats alongside. The killed and wounded were placed in the other gig with four sailors in charge. They were directed to keep under shelter of the junks until rejoined by the pinnace and Fothergill's gig, after these had done their work on shore. When all was ready the first lieutenant raised his hand as a signal, and the two boats dashed between the burning junks and rowed for the shore. Such of the natives as had their weapons charged fired a hasty volley, and then, as the sailors leapt from their boats, took to their heels. "Mr. Fothergill, take your party into the village and set fire to the houses; shoot down every man you see. This place is a nest of pirates. I will capture that battery and then join you." Fothergill and his sailors at once entered the village. The men had already fled; the women were turned out of the houses, and these were immediately set on fire. The tars regarded the whole affair as a glorious joke, and raced from house to house, making a hasty search in each for concealed valuables before setting it on fire. In a short time the whole village was in a blaze. "There is a house there, standing in that little grove a hundred yards away," Percy said. "It looks like a temple," Fothergill replied. "However, we will have a look at it." And calling two sailors to accompany him, he started at a run towards it, Percy keeping by his side. "It is a temple," Fothergill said when they approached it. "Still, we will have a look at it, but we won't burn it; it will be as well to respect the religion, even of a set of piratical scoundrels like these." At the head of his men he rushed in at the entrance. There was a blaze of fire as half a dozen muskets were discharged in their faces. One of the sailors dropped dead, and before the others had time to realize what had happened they were beaten to the ground by a storm of blows from swords and other weapons. A heavy blow crashed down on Percy's head, and he fell insensible even before he realized what had occurred. When he recovered, his first sensation was that of a vague wonder as to what had happened to him. He seemed to be in darkness and unable to move hand or foot. He was compressed in some way that he could not at first understand, and was being bumped and jolted in an extraordinary manner. It was some little time before he could understand the situation. He first remembered the fight with the junks, then he recalled the landing and burning the village; then, as his brain cleared, came the recollection of his start with Fothergill for the temple among the trees, his arrival there, and a loud report and flash of fire. "I must have been knocked down and stunned," he said to himself, "and I suppose I am a prisoner now to these brutes, and one of them must be carrying me on his back." Yes, he could understand it all now. His hands and his feet were tied, ropes were passed round his body in every direction, and he was fastened back to back upon the shoulders of a Chinaman. Percy remembered the tales he had heard of the imprisonment and torture of those who fell into the hands of the Chinese, and he bitterly regretted that he had not been killed instead of stunned in the surprise of the temple. "It would have been just the same feeling," he said to himself, "and there would have been an end of it. Now, there is no saying what is going to happen. I wonder whether Jack was killed, and the sailors." Presently there was a jabber of voices; the motion ceased. Percy could feel that the cords were being unwound, and he was dropped on to his feet; then the cloth was removed from his head, and he could look round. A dozen Chinese, armed with matchlocks and bristling with swords and daggers, stood around, and among them, bound like himself and gagged by a piece of bamboo forced lengthways across his mouth and kept there with a string going round the back of the head, stood Fothergill. He was bleeding from several cuts in the head. Percy's heart gave a bound of joy at finding that he was not alone; then he tried to feel sorry that Jack had not escaped, but failed to do so, although he told himself that his comrade's presence would not in any way alleviate the fate which was certain to befall him. Still the thought of companionship, even in wretchedness, and perhaps a vague hope that Jack, with his energy and spirit, might contrive some way for their escape, cheered him up. As Percy, too, was gagged, no word could be exchanged by the midshipmen, but they nodded to each other. They were now put side by side and made to walk in the centre of their captors. On the way they passed through several villages, whose inhabitants poured out to gaze at the captives, but the men in charge of them were evidently not disposed to delay, as they passed through without a stop. At last they halted before two cottages standing by themselves, thrust the prisoners into a small room, removed their gags, and left them to themselves. "Well, Percy, my boy, so they caught you too? I am awfully sorry. It was my fault for going with only two men into that temple, but as the village had been deserted and scarcely a man was found there, it never entered my mind that there might be a party in the temple." "Of course not, Jack; it was a surprise altogether. I don't know anything about it, for I was knocked down, I suppose, just as we went in, and the first thing I knew about it was that I was being carried on the back of one of those fellows. I thought it was awful at first, but I don't seem to mind so much now you are with me." "It is a comfort to have someone to speak to," Jack said, "yet I wish you were not here, Percy; I can't do you any good, and I shall never cease blaming myself for having brought you into this scrape. I don't know much more about the affair than you do. The guns were fired so close to us that my face was scorched with one of them, and almost at the same instant I got a lick across my cheek with a sword. I had just time to hit at one of them, and then almost at the same moment I got two or three other blows, and down I went; they threw themselves on the top of me and tied and gagged me in no time. Then I was tied to a long bamboo, and two fellows put the ends on their shoulders and went off with me through the fields. Of course I was face downwards, and did not know you were with us till they stopped and loosed me from the bamboo and set me on my feet." "But what are they going to do with us do you think, Jack?" "I should say they are going to take us to Canton and claim a reward for our capture, and there I suppose they will cut off our heads or saw us in two, or put us to some other unpleasant kind of death. I expect they are discussing it now; do you hear what a jabber they are kicking up?" Voices were indeed heard raised in angry altercation in the next room. After a time the din subsided and the conversation appeared to take a more amiable turn. "I suppose they have settled it as far as they are concerned," Jack said; "anyhow, you may be quite sure they mean to make something out of us. If they hadn't they would have finished us at once, for they must have been furious at the destruction of their junks and village. As to the idea that mercy has anything to do with it, we may as well put it out of our minds. The Chinaman, at the best of times, has no feeling of pity in his nature, and after their defeat it is certain they would have killed us at once had they not hoped to do better by us. If they had been Indians I should have said they had carried us off to enjoy the satisfaction of torturing us, but I don't suppose it is that with them." "Do you think there is any chance of our getting away?" Percy asked, after a pause. "I should say not the least in the world, Percy. My hands are fastened so tight now that the ropes seem cutting into my wrists, and after they had set me on my feet and cut the cords of my legs I could scarcely stand at first, my feet were so numbed by the pressure. However, we must keep up our pluck. Possibly they may keep us at Canton for a bit, and if they do the squadron may arrive and fight its way past the forts and take the city before they have quite made up their minds as to what kind of death will be most appropriate to the occasion. I wonder what they are doing now? They seem to be chopping sticks." "I wish they would give us some water," Percy said. "I am frightfully thirsty." "And so am I, Percy; there is one comfort, they won't let us die of thirst, they could get no satisfaction out of our deaths now." Two hours later some of the Chinese re-entered the room and led the captives outside, and the lads then saw what was the meaning of the noise they had heard. A cage had been manufactured of strong bamboos. It was about four and a half feet long, four feet wide, and less than three feet high; above it was fastened two long bamboos. Two or three of the bars of the cage had been left open. "My goodness! they never intend to put us in there," Percy exclaimed. "That they do," Jack said. "They are going to carry us the rest of the way." The cords which bound the prisoners' hands were now cut, and they were motioned to crawl into the cage. This they did; the bars were then put in their places and securely lashed. Four men went to the ends of the poles and lifted the cage upon their shoulders; two others took their places beside it, and one man, apparently the leader of the party, walked on ahead; the rest remained behind. "I never quite realized what a fowl felt in a coop before," Jack said, "but if its sensations are at all like mine they must be decidedly unpleasant. It isn't high enough to sit upright in, it is nothing like long enough to lie down, and as to getting out one might as well think of flying. Do you know, Percy, I don't think they mean taking us to Canton at all. I did not think of it before, but from the direction of the sun I feel sure that we cannot have been going that way. What they are up to I can't imagine." In an hour they came to a large village. Here the cage was set down and the villagers closed round. They were, however, kept a short distance from the cage by the men in charge of it. Then a wooden platter was placed on the ground, and persons throwing a few copper coins into this were allowed to come near the cage. "They are making a show of us!" Fothergill exclaimed. "That's what they are up to, you see if it isn't; they are going to travel up country to show the 'white devils' whom their valour has captured." This was, indeed, the purpose of the pirates. At that time Europeans seldom ventured beyond the limits assigned to them in the two or three towns where they were permitted to trade, and few, indeed, of the country people had ever obtained a sight of the white barbarians of whose doings they had so frequently heard. Consequently a small crowd soon gathered round the cage, eyeing the captives with the same interest they would have felt as to unknown and dangerous beasts; they laughed and joked, passed remarks upon them, and even poked them with sticks. Fothergill, furious at this treatment, caught one of the sticks, and wrenching it from the hands of the Chinaman, tried to strike at him through the bars, a proceeding which excited shouts of laughter from the by-standers. "I think, Jack," Percy said, "it will be best to try and keep our tempers and not to seem to mind what they do to us, then if they find they can't get any fun out of us they will soon leave us alone." "Of course, that's the best plan," Fothergill agreed, "but it's not so easy to follow. That fellow very nearly poked out my eye with his stick, and no one's going to stand that if he can help it." It was some hours before the curiosity of the village was satisfied. When all had paid who were likely to do so, the guards broke up their circle, and leaving two of their number at the cage to see that no actual harm was caused to their prisoners, the rest went off to a refreshment house. The place of the elders was now taken by the boys and children of the village, who crowded round the cage, prodded the prisoners with sticks, and, putting their hands through the bars, pulled their ears and hair. This amusement, however, was brought to an abrupt conclusion by Fothergill suddenly seizing the wrist of a big boy and pulling his arm through the cage until his face was against the bars; then he proceeded to punch him until the guard, coming to his rescue, poked Fothergill with his stick until he released his hold. The punishment of their comrade excited neither anger nor resentment among the other boys, who yelled with delight at his discomfiture, but it made them more careful in approaching the cage, and though they continued to poke the prisoners with sticks they did not venture again to thrust a hand through the bars. At sunset the guards again came round, lifted the cage and carried it into a shed. A platter of dirty rice and a jug of water were put into the cage; two of the men lighted their long pipes and sat down on guard beside it, and, the doors being closed, the captives were left in peace. "If this sort of thing is to go on, as I suppose it is," Fothergill said, "the sooner they cut off our heads the better." "It is very bad, Jack. I am sore all over with those probes from their sharp sticks." "I don't care for the pain, Percy, so much as the humiliation of the thing. To be stared at and poked at as if we were wild beasts by these curs, when with half a dozen of our men we could send a hundred of them scampering, I feel as if I could choke with rage." "You had better try and eat some of this rice, Jack. It is beastly, but I daresay we shall get no more until to-morrow night, and we must keep up our strength if we can. At any rate, the water is not bad, that's a comfort." "No thanks to them," Jack growled. "If there had been any bad water in the neighbourhood they would have given it to us." For six weeks the sufferings of the prisoners continued. Their captors avoided towns where the authorities would probably at once have taken the prisoners out of their hands. No one would have recognized the two captives as the midshipmen of the _Perseus_; their clothes were in rags--torn to pieces by the thrusts of the sharp-pointed bamboos, to which they had daily been subjected--the bad food, the cramped position, and the misery which they suffered had worn both lads to skeletons; their hair was matted with filth, their faces begrimed with dirt. Percy was so weak that he felt he could not stand. Fothergill, being three years older, was less exhausted, but he knew that he, too, could not support his sufferings for many days longer. Their bodies were covered with sores, and try as they would they were able to catch only a few minutes' sleep at a time, so much did the bamboo bars hurt their wasted limbs. They seldom exchanged a word during the daytime, suffering in silence the persecutions to which they were exposed, but at night they talked over their homes and friends in England, and their comrades on board ship, seldom saying a word as to their present position. They were now in a hilly country, but had not the least idea of the direction in which it lay from Canton or its distance from the coast. One evening Jack said to his companion, "I think it's nearly all over now, Percy. The last two days we have made longer journeys, and have not stopped at any of the smaller villages we passed through. I fancy our guards must see that we can't last much longer, and are taking us down to some town to hand us over to the authorities and get their reward for us." "I hope it is so, Jack; the sooner the better. Not that it makes much difference now to me, for I do not think I can stand many more days of it." "I am afraid I am tougher than you, Percy, and shall take longer to kill, so I hope with all my heart that I may be right, and that they may be going to give us up to the authorities." The next evening they stopped at a large place, and were subjected to the usual persecution; this, however, was now less prolonged than during the early days of their captivity, for they had now no longer strength or spirits to resent their treatment, and as no fun was to be obtained from passive victims, even the village boys soon ceased to find any amusement in tormenting them. When most of their visitors had left them, an elderly Chinaman approached the side of the cage. He spoke to their guards and looked at them attentively for some minutes, then he said in pigeon English, "You officer men?" "Yes!" Jack exclaimed, starting at the sound of the English words, the first they had heard spoken since their captivity. "Yes, we are officers of the _Perseus_." "Me speeke English velly well," the Chinaman said; "me pilot-man many years on Canton river. How you get here?" "We were attacking some piratical junks, and landed to destroy the village where the people were firing on us. We entered a place full of pirates, and were knocked down and taken prisoners, and carried away up the country; that is six weeks ago, and you see what we are now." "Pirate men velly bad," the Chinaman said; "plunder many junk on river and kill crew. Me muchee hate them." "Can you do anything for us?" Jack asked. "You will be well rewarded if you could manage to get us free." The man shook his head. "Me no see what can do, me stranger here; come to stay with wifey; people no do what me ask them. English ships attack Canton, much fight and take town, people all hate English. Bad country dis. People in one village fight against another. Velly bad men here." "How far is Canton away?" Jack asked. "Could you not send down to tell the English we are here?" "Fourteen days' journey off," the man said; "no see how can do anything." "Well," Jack said, "when you get back again to Canton let our people know what has been the end of us; we shall not last much longer." "All light," the man said, "will see what me can do. Muchee think to-night!" And after saying a few words to the guards, who had been regarding this conversation with an air of surprise, the Chinaman retired. The guards had for some time abandoned the precaution of sitting up at night by the cage, convinced that their captives had no longer strength to attempt to break through its fastenings or to drag themselves many yards away if they could do so. They therefore left it standing in the open, and, wrapping themselves in their thickly-wadded coats, for the nights were cold, lay down by the side of the cage. The coolness of the nights had, indeed, assisted to keep the two prisoners alive. During the day the sun was excessively hot, and the crowd of visitors round the cage impeded the circulation of the air and added to their sufferings. It was true that the cold at night frequently prevented them from sleeping, but it acted as a tonic and braced them up. "What did he mean about the villages attacking each other?" Percy asked. "I have heard," Jack replied, "that in some parts of China things are very much the same as they used to be in the highlands of Scotland. There is no law or order. The different villages are like clans, and wage war on each other. Sometimes the Government sends a number of troops, who put the thing down for a time, chop off a good many heads, and then march away, and the whole work begins again as soon as their backs are turned." That night the uneasy slumber of the lads was disturbed by a sudden firing; shouts and yells were heard, and the firing redoubled. "The village is attacked," Jack said. "I noticed that, like some other places we have come into lately, there is a strong earthen wall round it, with gates. Well, there is one comfort--it does not make much difference to us which side wins." The guards at the first alarm leapt to their feet, caught up their matchlocks, and ran to aid in the defence of the wall. Two minutes later a man ran up to the cage. "All lightee," he said; "just what me hopee." With his knife he cut the tough withes that held the bamboos in their places, and pulled out three of the bars. "Come along," he said; "no time to lose." Jack scrambled out, but in trying to stand upright gave a sharp exclamation of pain. Percy crawled out more slowly; he tried to stand up, but could not. The Chinaman caught him up and threw him on his shoulder. "Come along quickee," he said to Jack; "if takee village, kill evely one." He set off at a run. Jack followed as fast as he could, groaning at every step from the pain the movement caused to his bruised body. They went to the side of the village opposite to that at which the attack was going on. They met no one on the way, the inhabitants having all rushed to the other side to repel the attack. They stopped at a small gate in the wall, the Chinaman drew back the bolts and opened it, and they passed out into the country. For an hour they kept on. By the end of that time Jack could scarcely drag his limbs along. The Chinaman halted at length in a clump of trees surrounded by a thick undergrowth. "Allee safee here," he said, "no searchee so far; here food;" and he produced from a wallet a cold chicken and some boiled rice, and unslung from his shoulder a gourd filled with cold tea. "Me go back now, see what happen. To-mollow nightee come again--bringee more food." And without another word went off at a rapid pace. Jack moistened his lips with the tea, and then turned to his companion. Percy had not spoken a word since he had been released from the cage, and had been insensible during the greater part of his journey. Jack poured some cold tea between his lips. "Cheer up, Percy, old boy, we are free now, and with luck and that good fellow's help we will work our way down to Canton yet." "I shall never get down there; you may," Percy said feebly. "Oh, nonsense, you will pick up strength like a steam-engine now. Here, let me prop you against this tree. That's better. Now drink a drop of this tea; it's like nectar after that filthy water we have been drinking. Now you will feel better. Now you must try and eat a little of this chicken and rice. Oh, nonsense, you have got to do it. I am not going to let you give way when our trouble is just over. Think of your people at home, Percy, and make an effort, for their sakes. Good heavens! now I think of it, it must be Christmas morning. We were caught on the 2nd and we have been just twenty-two days on show. I am sure that it must be past twelve o'clock, and it is Christmas-day. It is a good omen, Percy. This food isn't like roast beef and plum-pudding, but it's not to be despised, I can tell you. Come, fire away, that's a good fellow." Percy made an effort and ate a few mouthfuls of rice and chicken, then he took another draught of tea, and lay down, and was almost immediately asleep. Jack ate his food slowly and contentedly till he finished half the supply, then he, too, lay down, and, after a short but hearty thanksgiving for his escape from a slow and lingering death, he, too, fell off to sleep. The sun was rising when he woke, being aroused by a slight movement on the part of Percy; he opened his eyes and sat up. "Well, Percy, how do you feel this morning?" he asked cheerily. "I feel too weak to move," Percy replied languidly. "Oh, you will be all right when you have sat up and eaten breakfast," Jack said. "Here you are; here is a wing for you, and this rice is as white as snow, and the tea is first rate. I thought last night after I lay down that I heard a murmur of water, so after we have had breakfast I will look about and see if I can find it. We should feel like new men after a wash. You look awful, and I am sure I am just as bad." The thought of a wash inspirited Percy far more than that of eating, and he sat up and made a great effort to do justice to breakfast. He succeeded much better than he had done the night before, and Jack, although he pretended to grumble, was satisfied with his companion's progress, and finished off the rest of the food. Then he set out to search for water. He had not very far to go; a tiny stream, a few inches wide and two or three inches deep, ran through the wood from the higher ground. After throwing himself down and taking a drink, he hurried back to Percy. "It is all right, Percy, I have found it. We can wash to our hearts' content; think of that, lad." Percy could hardly stand, but he made an effort, and Jack half carried him to the streamlet. There the lads spent hours. First they bathed their heads and hands, and then, stripping, lay down in the stream and allowed it to flow over them, then they rubbed themselves with handfuls of leaves dipped in the water, and when they at last put on their rags again felt like new men. Percy was able to walk back to the spot they had quitted with the assistance only of Jack's arm. The latter, feeling that his breakfast had by no means appeased his hunger, now started for a search through the wood, and presently returned to Percy laden with nuts and berries. "The nuts are sure to be all right; I expect the berries are too. I have certainly seen some like them in native markets, and I think it will be quite safe to risk it." The rest of the day was spent in picking nuts and eating them. Then they sat down and waited for the arrival of their friend. He came two hours after nightfall with a wallet stored with provisions, and told them that he had regained the village unobserved. The attack had been repulsed, but with severe loss to the defenders as well as the assailants; two of their guards had been among the killed. The others had made a great clamour over the escape of the prisoners, and had made a close search throughout the village and immediately round it, for they were convinced that their captives had not had the strength to go any distance. He thought, however, that although they had professed the greatest indignation, and had offered many threats as to the vengeance that Government would take upon the village, one of whose inhabitants, at least, must have aided in the evasion of the prisoners, they would not trouble themselves any further in the matter. They had already reaped a rich harvest from the exhibition, and would divide among themselves the share of their late comrades; nor was it at all improbable that if they were to report the matter to the authorities they would themselves get into serious trouble for not having handed over the prisoners immediately after their capture. For a fortnight the pilot nursed and fed the two midshipmen. He had already provided them with native clothes, so that if by chance any villagers should catch sight of them they would not recognize them as the escaped white men. At the end of that time both the lads had almost recovered from the effects of their sufferings. Jack, indeed, had picked up from the first, but Percy for some days continued so weak and ill that Jack had feared that he was going to have an attack of fever of some kind. His companion's cheery and hopeful chat did as much good for Percy as the nourishing food with which their friend supplied them, and at the end of the fortnight he declared that he felt sufficiently strong to attempt to make his way down to the coast. The pilot acted as their guide. When they inquired about his wife, he told them carelessly that she would remain with her kinsfolk, and would travel on to Canton and join him there when she found an opportunity. The journey was accomplished at night, by very short stages at first, but by increasing distances as Percy gained strength. During the daytime the lads lay hid in woods or jungles, while their companion went into the village and purchased food. They struck the river many miles above Canton, and the pilot, going down first to a village on its banks, bargained for a boat to take him and two women down to the city. The lads went on board at night and took their places in the little cabin formed of bamboos and covered with mats in the stern of the boat, and remained thus sheltered not only from the view of people in boats passing up or down the stream, but from the eyes of their own boatmen. After two days' journey down the river without incident, they arrived off Canton, where the British fleet was still lying while negotiations for peace were being carried on with the authorities at Pekin. Peeping out between the mats, the lads caught sight of the English warships, and, knowing that there was now no danger, they dashed out of the cabin, to the surprise of the native boatmen, and shouted and waved their arms to the distant ships. In ten minutes they were alongside the _Perseus_, when they were hailed as if restored from the dead. The pilot was very handsomely rewarded by the English authorities for his kindness to the prisoners, and was highly satisfied with the result of his proceedings, which more than doubled the little capital with which he had retired from business. Jack Fothergill and Percy Adcock declare that they have never since eaten chicken without thinking of their Christmas fare on the morning of their escape from the hands of the Chinese pirates. THE END. [Illustration: Blackie & Son's Books for Young People] _By the Author of "John Herring," "Mehalah," &c._ =Grettir the Outlaw:= A Story of Iceland. By S. Baring-Gould. With 10 full-page Illustrations by M. Zeno Diemer and a Coloured Map. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s_. A work of special interest, not only because of the high rank which Mr. Baring-Gould has of late years acquired by his brilliant series of novels, _Mehalah_, _John Herring_, _Court Royal_, &c., but because of his earlier won reputation as a historian and explorer of folk-legends and popular beliefs. In the story of Grettir, both the art of the novelist and the lore of the archæologist have had full scope, with the result that we have a narrative of adventure of the most romantic kind, and at the same time an interesting and minutely accurate account of the old Icelandic families, their homes, their mode of life, their superstitions, their songs and stories, their bear-serk fury, and their heroism by land and sea. The story is told throughout with a simplicity which will make it attractive even to the very young, and no boy will be able to withstand the magic of such scenes as the fight of Grettir with the twelve bear-serks, the wrestle with Karr the Old in the chamber of the dead, the combat with the spirit of Glam the thrall, and the defence of the dying Grettir by his younger brother. * * * * * BY G.A. HENTY. * * * * * =With Lee in Virginia:= A Story of the American Civil War. By G.A. Henty. With 10 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s_. The great war between the Northern and Southern States of America has the special interest for English boys of having been a struggle between two sections of a people akin to us in race and language--a struggle fought out by each side with unusual intensity of conviction in the rightness of its cause, and abounding in heroic incidents. Of these points Mr. Henty has made admirable use in this story of a young Virginian planter, who, after bravely proving his sympathy with the slaves, serves with no less courage and enthusiasm under Lee and Jackson through the most exciting events of the struggle. He has many hairbreadth escapes, is several times wounded and twice taken prisoner; but his courage and readiness bring him safely through all difficulties. BY G.A. HENTY. "Mr. Henty is one of the best of story tellers for young people."--_Spectator._ * * * * * =By Pike and Dyke:= A Tale of the Rise of the Dutch Republic. By G.A. Henty. With 10 full-page Illustrations by Maynard Brown and 4 Maps. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s_. A story covering the period which forms the thrilling subject of Motley's _Rise of the Dutch Republic_, when the Netherlands, under the guidance of William of Orange, revolted against the attempts of Alva and the Spaniards to force upon them the Catholic religion. To a story already of the keenest interest, Mr. Henty has added a special attractiveness for boys in tracing through the historic conflict the adventures and brave deeds of an English boy in the household of the ablest man of his age--William the Silent. Edward Martin; the son of an English sea-captain, after sharing in the excitement of an escape from the Spaniards and a sea-fight, enters the service of the Prince as a volunteer, and is employed by him in many dangerous and responsible missions, in the discharge of which he passes through the great sieges and more than one naval engagement of the time. He is subsequently employed in Holland by Queen Elizabeth, to whom he is recommended by Orange; and ultimately settles down as Sir Edward Martin and the husband of the lady to whom he owes his life, and whom he in turn has saved from the Council of Blood. =The Lion Of St. Mark:= A Tale of Venice in the Fourteenth Century. By G.A. Henty. With 10 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s_. "Every boy should read _The Lion of St. Mark_. Mr. Henty has never produced any story more delightful, more wholesome, or more vivacious. From first to last it will be read with keen enjoyment."--_The Saturday Review._ "Mr. Henty has probably not published a more interesting story than _The Lion of St. Mark_. He has certainly not published one in which he has been at such pains to rise to the dignity of his subject. Mr. Henty's battle-pieces are admirable."--_The Academy._ "The young hero has shrewdness, courage, enterprise, principle, all the qualities that help the young in the race and battle of life."--_Literary Churchman._ =Captain Bailey's Heir:= A Tale of the Gold Fields of California. By G.A. Henty. With 12 full-page Illustrations by H.M. Paget. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s_. "A Westminster boy who, like all this author's heroes, makes his way in the world by hard work, good temper, and unfailing courage. The descriptions given of life are just what a healthy intelligent lad should delight in."--_St. James's Gazette._ "The portraits of Captain Bayley, and the head-master of Westminster school, are admirably drawn; and the adventures in California are told with that vigour which is peculiar to Mr. Henty."--_The Academy._ "Mr. Henty is careful to mingle solid instruction with entertainment; and the humorous touches, especially in the sketch of John Holl, the Westminster dustman, Dickens himself could hardly have excelled."--_Christian Leader._ BY G.A. HENTY. "Surely Mr. Henty should understand boys' tastes better than any man living."--_The Times._ * * * * * =Bonnie Prince Charlie:= A Tale of Fontenoy and Culloden. By G.A. Henty. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s_. "Ronald, the hero, is very like the hero of _Quentin Durward_. The lad's journey across France with his faithful attendant Malcolm, and his hairbreadth escapes from the machinations of his father's enemies, make up as good a narrative of the kind as we have ever read. For freshness of treatment and variety of incident, Mr. Henty has here surpassed himself."--_Spectator._ "A historical romance of the best quality. Mr. Henty has written many more sensational stories, but never a more artistic one."--_Academy._ =For the Temple:= A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem. By G.A. Henty. With 10 full-page Illustrations by Solomon J. Solomon: and a coloured Map. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s_. "Mr. Henty is ever one of the foremost writers of historical tales, and his graphic prose pictures of the hopeless Jewish resistance to Roman sway adds another leaf to his record of the famous wars of the world. The book is one of Mr. Henty's cleverest efforts."--_Graphic._ "The story is told with all the force of descriptive power which has made the author's war stories so famous, and many an 'old boy' as well as the younger ones will delight in this narrative of that awful page of history."--_Church Times._ =The Lion Of the North:= A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus and the Wars of Religion. By G.A. Henty. With 12 full-page Illustrations by John Schönberg. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s_. "As we might expect from Mr. Henty the tale is a clever and instructive piece of history, and as boys may be trusted to read it conscientiously, they can hardly fail to be profited as well as pleased."--_The Times._ "A praiseworthy attempt to interest British youth in the great deeds of the Scotch Brigade in the wars of Gustavus Adolphus. Mackay, Hepburn, and Munro live again in Mr. Henty's pages, as those deserve to live whose disciplined bands formed really the germ of the modern British army."--_Athenæum._ "A stirring story of stirring times. This book should hold a place among the classics of youthful fiction."--_United Service Gazette._ =The Young Carthaginian:= A story of the Times of Hannibal. By G.A. Henty. With 12 full-page Illustrations by C.J. Staniland, R.I. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s_. "The effect of an interesting story, well constructed and vividly told, is enhanced by the picturesque quality of the scenic background. From first to last nothing stays the interest of the narrative. It bears us along as on a stream, whose current varies in direction, but never loses its force."--_Saturday Review._ "Ought to be popular with boys who are not too ill instructed or too dandified to be affected by a graphic picture of the days and deeds of Hannibal."--_Athenæum._ BY G.A. HENTY. "Among writers of stories of adventure for boys Mr. Henty stands in the very first rank."--_Academy._ * * * * * =With Wolfe in Canada:= Or, The Winning of a Continent. By G.A. Henty. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s_. "A model of what a boys' story-book should be. Mr. Henty has a great power of infusing into the dead facts of history new life, and as no pains are spared by him to ensure accuracy in historic details, his books supply useful aids to study as well as amusement."--_School Guardian._ "It is not only a lesson in history as instructively as it is graphically told, but also a deeply interesting and often thrilling tale of adventure and peril by flood and field."--_Illustrated London News._ "This is a narrative which will bear retelling, and to which Mr. Henty, whose careful study of details is worthy of all praise, does full justice.... His adventures are told with much spirit; the escape when the birch canoes have been damaged by an enemy is especially well described."--_Spectator._ =With Clive in India:= Or, The Beginnings of an Empire. By G.A. Henty. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s_. "In this book Mr. Henty has contrived to exceed himself in stirring adventures and thrilling situations. The pictures add greatly to the interest of the book."--_Saturday Review._ "Among writers of stories of adventure for boys Mr. Henty stands in the very first rank. Those who know something about India will be the most ready to thank Mr. Henty for giving them this instructive volume to place in the hands of their children."--_Academy._ =True to the Old Flag:= A Tale of the American War of Independence. By G.A. Henty. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "Does justice to the pluck and determination of the British soldiers. The son of an American loyalist, who remains true to our flag, falls among the hostile redskins in that very Huron country which has been endeared to us by the exploits of Hawkeye and Chingachgook."--_The Times._ "Mr. Henty's extensive personal experience of adventures and moving incidents by flood and field, combined with a gift of picturesque narrative, make his books always welcome visitors in the home circle."--_Daily News._ =In Freedom's Cause:= A Story of Wallace and Bruce. By G.A. Henty. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s_. "Mr. Henty has broken new ground as an historical novelist. His tale of the days of Wallace and Bruce is full of stirring action, and will commend itself to boys."--_Athenæum._ "Written in the author's best style. Full of the most remarkable achievements, it is a tale of great interest, which a boy, once he has begun it, will not willingly put on one side."--_Schoolmaster._ "Scarcely anywhere have we seen in prose a more lucid and spirit-stirring description of Bannockburn than the one with which the author fittingly closes his volume."--_Dumfries Standard._ BY G.A. HENTY. "Mr. Henty is one of our most successful writers of historical tales."--_Scotsman._ * * * * * =Through the Fray:= A Story of the Luddite Riots. By G.A. Henty. With 12 full-page Illustrations by H.M. Paget. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "Mr. Henty inspires a love and admiration for straightforwardness, truth, and courage. This is one of the best of the many good books Mr. Henty has produced, and deserves to be classed with his _Facing Death_."--_Standard._ "The interest of the story never flags. Were we to propose a competition for the best list of novel writers for boys we have little doubt that Mr. Henty's name would stand first."--_Journal of Education._ "This story is told in Mr. Henty's own easy and often graphic style. There is no 'padding' in the book, and its teaching is, that we have enemies within as well as without, and therefore the power of self-control is a quality that should be striven after by every 'true' boy."--_Educational Times._ =Under Drake's Flag:= A Tale of the Spanish Main. By G.A. Henty. Illustrated by 12 full-page Pictures by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "There is not a dull chapter, nor, indeed, a dull page in the hook; but the author has so carefully worked up his subject that the exciting deeds of his heroes are never incongruous or absurd."--_Observer._ "Just such a book, indeed, as the youth of this maritime country are likely to prize highly."--_Daily Telegraph._ "A book of adventure, where the hero meets with experience enough one would think to turn his hair gray."--_Harper's Monthly Magazine._ * * * * * BY PROFESSOR A.J. CHURCH. * * * * * =Two Thousand Years Ago:= Or, The Adventures of a Roman Boy. By Professor A.J. Church. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Adrien Marie. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "Adventures well worth the telling. The book is extremely entertaining as well as useful, and there is a wonderful freshness in the Roman scenes and characters."--_The Times._ "Entertaining in the highest degree from beginning to end, and full of adventure which is all the livelier for its close connection with history."--_Spectator._ "We know of no book which will do more to make the Romans of that day live again for the English reader."--_Guardian._ * * * * * =Robinson Crusoe.= By Daniel Defoe. Illustrated by above 100 Pictures by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "One of the best issues, if not absolutely the best, of Defoe's work which has ever appeared."--_The Standard._ "The best edition I have come across for years. If you know a boy who has not a 'Robinson Crusoe,' just glance at any one of these hundred illustrations, and you will go no further afield in search of a present for him."--_Truth._ BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. "Mr. Fenn is in the front rank of writers of stories for boys."--_Liverpool Mercury._ * * * * * =Quicksilver:= Or a Boy with no Skid to his Wheel. By George Manville Fenn. With 10 full-page Illustrations by Frank Dadd. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "_Quicksilver_ is little short of an inspiration. In it that prince of story-writers for boys--George Manville Fenn--has surpassed himself. It is an ideal book for a boy's library."--_Practical Teacher._ "The story is capitally told, it abounds in graphic and well-described scenes, and it has an excellent and manly tone throughout."--_The Guardian._ "This is one of Mr. Fenn's happiest efforts, and deserves to be read and re-read by every school-boy in the land. We are not exaggerating when we say that _Quicksilver_ has nothing to equal it this season."--_Teacher's Aid._ =Dick o' the Fens:= A Romance of the Great East Swamp. By G. Manville Fenn. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Frank Dadd. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "We conscientiously believe that boys will find it capital reading. It is full of incident and mystery, and the mystery is kept up to the last moment. It is rich in effective local colouring; and it has a historical interest."--_Times._ "We have not of late come across a historical fiction, whether intended for boys or for men, which deserves to be so heartily and unreservedly praised as regards plot, incidents, and spirit as _Dick o' the Fens_. It is its author's masterpiece as yet."--_Spectator._ =Devon Boys:= A Tale of the North Shore. By G. Manville Fenn. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "An admirable story, as remarkable for the individuality of its young heroes as for the excellent descriptions of coast scenery and life in North Devon. It is one of the best books we have seen this season."--_Athenæum._ "We do not know that Mr. Fenn has ever reached a higher level than he has in _Devon Boys_. It must be put in the very front rank of Christmas books."--_Spectator._ =Brownsmith's Boy:= A Romance in a Garden. By G. Manville Fenn. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "Mr. Fenn's books are among the best, if not altogether the best, of the stories for boys. Mr. Fenn is at his best in _Brownsmith's Boy_."--_Pictorial World._ "_Brownsmith's Boy_ must rank among the few undeniably good boys' books. He will be a very dull boy indeed who lays it down without wishing that it had gone on for at least 100 pages more."--_North British Mail._ =In the King's Name:= Or the Cruise of the _Kestrel_. By G. Manville Fenn. Illustrated by 12 full-page Pictures by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "A capital boys' story, full of incident and adventure, and told in the lively style in which Mr. Fenn is such an adept."--_Globe._ "The best of all Mr. Fenn's productions in this field. It has the great quality of always 'moving on,' adventure following adventure in constant succession."--_Daily News._ BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. "Our boys know Mr. Fenn well, his stories having won for him a foremost place in their estimation."--_Pall Mall Gazette._ * * * * * =Bunyip Land:= The Story of a Wild Journey in New Guinea. By G. Manville Fenn. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "Mr. Fenn deserves the thanks of everybody for _Bunyip Land_, and we may venture to promise that a quiet week may be reckoned on whilst the youngsters have such fascinating literature provided for their evenings' amusement."--_Spectator._ "One of the best tales of adventure produced by any living writer, combining the inventiveness of Jules Verne, and the solidity of character and earnestness of spirit which have made the English victorious in so many fields."--_Daily Chronicle._ =The Golden Magnet:= A Tale of the Land of the Incas. By G. Manville Fenn. Illustrated by 12 full-page Pictures by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "This is, we think, the best boys' book Mr. Fenn has produced.... The Illustrations are perfect in their way."--_Globe._ "There could be no more welcome present for a boy. There is not a dull page in the book, and many will be read with breathless interest. 'The Golden Magnet' is, of course, the same one that attracted Raleigh and the heroes of _Westward Ho!_"--_Journal of Education._ * * * * * BY HARRY COLLINGWOOD. =The Log Of the "Flying Fish:"= A Story of Aerial and Submarine Peril and Adventure. By Harry Collingwood. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne, Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "The _Flying Fish_ actually surpasses all Jules Verne's creations; with incredible speed she flies through the air, skims over the surface of the water, and darts along the ocean bed. We strongly recommend our school-boy friends to possess themselves of her log."--_Athenæum._ * * * * * BY SARAH DOUDNEY. =Under False Colours.= By Sarah Doudney. With 12 full-page Illustrations by G.G. Kilburne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "This is a charming story, abounding in delicate touches of sentiment and pathos. Its plot is skilfully contrived. It will be read with a warm interest by every girl who takes it up."--_Scotsman._ "Sarah Doudney has no superior as a writer of high-toned stories--pure in style, original in conception, and with skilfully wrought-out plots; but we have seen nothing from this lady's pen equal in dramatic energy to her latest work--_Under False Colours_."--_Christian Leader._ BY G.A. HENTY. "The brightest of all the living writers whose office it is to enchant the boys."--_Christian Leader._ * * * * * =One Of the 28th:= A Tale of Waterloo. By G.A. Henty. With 8 full-page Illustrations by W.H. Overend, and 2 Maps. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ Herbert Penfold, being desirous of benefiting the daughter of an intimate friend, and Ralph Conway, the son of a lady to whom he had once been engaged, draws up a will dividing his property between them, and places it in a hiding-place only known to members of his own family. At his death his two sisters determine to keep silence, and the authorized search for the will, though apparently thorough, fails to bring it to light. The mother of Ralph, however, succeeds in entering the house as a servant, and after an arduous and exciting search secures the will. In the meantime, her son has himself passed through a series of adventures. The boat in which he is fishing is run down by a French privateer, and Ralph, scrambling on board, is forced to serve until the harbour of refuge is entered by a British frigate. On his return he enters the army, and after some rough service in Ireland, takes part in the Waterloo campaign, from which he returns with the loss of an arm, but with a substantial fortune, which is still further increased by his marriage with his co-heir. =The Cat Of Bubastes:= A Story of Ancient Egypt. By G.A. Henty. With 8 full-page Illustrations by J.R. Weguelin. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _5s._ "The story is highly enjoyable. We have pictures of Egyptian domestic life, of sport, of religious ceremonial, and of other things which may still be seen vividly portrayed by the brush of Egyptian artists."--_The Spectator._ "The story, from the critical moment of the killing of the sacred cat to the perilous exodus into Asia with which it closes, is very skilfully constructed and full of exciting adventures. It is admirably illustrated."--_Saturday Review._ "Mr. Henty has fairly excelled himself in this admirable story of romance and adventure. We have never examined a story-book that we can recommend with more confidence as a boy's reward."--_Teachers' Aid._ =The Dragon and the Raven:= Or, The Days of King Alfred. By G.A. Henty. With 8 full-page Illustrations by C.J. Staniland, R.I. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "Perhaps the best story of the early days of England which has yet been told."--_Court Journal._ "We know of no popular book in which the stirring incidents of Alfred's reign are made accessible to young readers as they are here."--_Scotsman._ =St. George for England:= A Tale of Cressy and Poitiers. By G.A. Henty. With 8 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne, in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "Mr. Henty has done his work well, producing a strong story at once instructive and entertaining."--_Glasgow Herald._ "Mr. Henty's historical novels for boys bid fair to supplement, on their behalf, the historical labours of Sir Walter Scott in the land of fiction."--_Standard._ BY G.A. HENTY. "Mr. Henty is the king of story-tellers for boys."--_Sword and Trowel._ * * * * * =The Bravest Of the Brave:= With Peterborough in Spain. By G.A. Henty. With 8 full-page Pictures by H.M. Paget. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "Mr. Henty never loses sight of the moral purpose of his work--to enforce the doctrine of courage and truth, mercy and loving kindness, as indispensable to the making of an English gentleman. British lads will read _The Bravest of the Brave_ with pleasure and profit; of that we are quite sure."--_Daily Telegraph._ =For Name and Fame:= Or, Through Afghan Passes. By G.A. Henty. With 8 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne, in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "The best feature of the book, apart from its scenes of adventure, is its honest effort to do justice to the patriotism of the Afghan people."--_Daily News._ "Not only a rousing story, replete with all the varied forms of excitement of a campaign, but, what is still more useful, an account of a territory and its inhabitants which must for a long time possess a supreme interest for Englishmen, as being the key to our Indian Empire."--_Glasgow Herald._ =In the Reign Of Terror:= The Adventures of a Westminster Boy. By G.A. Henty. With 8 full-page Illustrations by J. Schönberg. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _5s_. "Harry Sandwith, the Westminster boy, may fairly be said to beat Mr. Henty's record. His adventures will delight boys by the audacity and peril they depict. The story is one of Mr. Henty's best."--_Saturday Review._ =Orange and Green:= A Tale of the Boyne and Limerick. By G.A. Henty. With 8 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _5s._ "An extremely spirited story, based on the struggle in Ireland, rendered memorable by the defence of 'Derry and the siege of Limerick."--_Sat. Review._ "The narrative is free from the vice of prejudice, and ripples with life as vivacious as if what is being described were really passing before the eye.... _Orange and Green_ should be in the hands of every young student of Irish history without delay."--_Belfast Morning News._ =By Sheer Pluck:= A Tale of the Ashanti War. By G.A. Henty. With 8 full-page Pictures by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "_By Sheer Pluck_ will be eagerly read. The author's personal knowledge of the west coast has been turned to full advantage."--_Athenæum._ "Morally, the book is everything that could be desired, setting before the boys a bright and bracing ideal of the English gentleman."--_Christian Leader._ BY G.A. HENTY. "Mr. G.A. Henty's fame as a writer of boys' stories is deserved and secure."--_Cork Herald._ * * * * * =A Final Reckoning:= A Tale of Bush Life in Australia. By G.A. Henty. With 8 full-page Illustrations by W.B. Wollen. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "Exhibits Mr. Henty's talent as a story-teller at his best.... The drawings possess the uncommon merit of really illustrating the text."--_Saturday Review._ "All boys will read this story with eager and unflagging interest. The episodes are in Mr. Henty's very best vein--graphic, exciting, realistic; and, as in all Mr. Henty's books, the tendency is to the formation of an honourable, manly, and even heroic character."--_Birmingham Post._ =Facing Death:= Or the Hero of the Vaughan Pit. A Tale of the Coal Mines. By G.A. Henty. With 8 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "If any father, godfather, clergyman, or schoolmaster is on the look-out for a good book to give as a present to a boy who is worth his salt, this is the book we would recommend."--_Standard._ * * * * * BY F. FRANKFORT MOORE. =Highways and High Seas:= Cyril Harley's Adventures on both. By F. Frankfort Moore. With 8 full-page Illustrations by Alfred Pearse. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _5s._ The story belongs to a period when highways meant post-chaises, coaches, and highwaymen, and when high seas meant post-captains, frigates, privateers, and smugglers; and the hero--a boy who has some remarkable experiences upon both--tells his story with no less humour than vividness. He shows incidentally how little real courage and romance there frequently was about the favourite law-breakers of fiction, but how they might give rise to the need of the highest courage in others and lead to romantic adventures of an exceedingly exciting kind. A certain piquancy is given to the story by a slight trace of nineteenth century malice in the picturing of eighteenth century life and manners. =Under Hatches:= Or Ned Woodthorpe's Adventures. By F. Frankfort Moore. With 8 full-page Illustrations by A. Forestier. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _5s._ "Mr. Moore has never shown himself so thoroughly qualified to write books for boys as he has done in _Under Hatches_."--_The Academy._ "A first-rate sea story, full of stirring incidents, and, from a literary point of view, far better written than the majority of books for boys."--_Pall Mall Gazette._ "The story as a story is one that will just suit boys all the world over. The characters are well drawn and consistent; Patsy, the Irish steward, will be found especially amusing."--_Schoolmaster._ BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. "No one can find his way to the hearts of lads more readily than Mr. Fenn."--_Nottingham Guardian._ * * * * * =Yussuf the Guide:= Being the Strange Story of the Travels in Asia Minor of Burne the Lawyer, Preston the Professor, and Lawrence the Sick. By G. Manville Fenn. With 8 full-page Illustrations by John Schönberg. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "The narrative will take its readers into scenes that will have great novelty and attraction for them, and the experiences with the brigands will be especially delightful to boys."--_Scotsman._ =Menhardoc:= A Story of Cornish Nets and Mines. By G. Manville Fenn. With 8 full-page Illustrations by C.J. Staniland. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "They are real living boys, with their virtues and faults. The Cornish fishermen are drawn from life, they are racy of the soil, salt with the sea-water, and they stand out from the pages in their jerseys and sea-boots all sprinkled with silvery pilchard scales."--_Spectator._ "A description of Will Marion's descent into a flooded mine is excellent. Josh is a delightfully amusing character. We may cordially praise the illustrations."--_Saturday Review._ =Mother Carey's Chicken:= Her Voyage to the Unknown Isle. By G. Manville Fenn. With 8 full-page Illustrations by A. Forestier. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _5s._ "Jules Verne himself never constructed a more marvellous tale. It contains the strongly marked English features that are always conspicuous in Mr. Fenn's stories--a humour racy of the British soil, the manly vigour of his sentiment, and wholesome moral lessons. For anything to match his realistic touch we must go to Daniel Defoe."--_Christian Leader._ "When we get to the 'Unknown Isle,' the story becomes exciting. Mr. Fenn keeps his readers in a suspense that is not intermitted for a moment, and the _dénouement_ is a surprise which is as probable as it is startling."--_Spectator._ =Patience Wins:= Or, War in the Works. By G. Manville Fenn. With 8 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "An excellent story, the interest being sustained from first to last. One of the best books of its kind which has come before us this year."--_Saturday Review._ "Mr. Fenn is at his best in _Patience Wins_. It is sure to prove acceptable to youthful readers, and will give a good idea of that which was the real state of one of our largest manufacturing towns not many years ago."--_Guardian._ =Nat the Naturalist:= A Boy's Adventures in the Eastern Seas. By G. Manville Fenn. With 8 full-page Pictures. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "Among the best of the many good books for boys that have come out this season."--_Times._ "This sort of book encourages independence of character, develops resource, and teaches a boy to keep his eyes open."--_Saturday Review._ BY HARRY COLLINGWOOD. * * * * * =The Missing Merchantman.= By Harry Collingwood. With 8 full-page Illustrations by W.H. Overend. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _5s._ "Mr. Collingwood is _facile princeps_ as a teller of sea stories for boys, and the present is one of the best productions of his pen."--_Standard._ "This is one of the author's best sea stories. The hero is as heroic as any boy could desire, and the ending is extremely happy."--_British Weekly._ =The Rover's Secret:= A Tale of the Pirate Cays and Lagoons of Cuba. By Harry Collingwood. With 8 full-page Illustrations by W.C. Symons. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _5s._ "_The Rover's Secret_ is by far the best sea story we have read for years, and is certain to give unalloyed pleasure to boys. The illustrations are fresh and vigorous."--_Saturday Review._ =The Pirate Island:= A Story of the South Pacific. By Harry Collingwood. Illustrated by 8 full-page Pictures by C.J. Staniland and J.R. Wells. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "A capital story of the sea; indeed in our opinion the author is superior in some respects as a marine novelist to the better known Mr. Clarke Russell."--_The Times._ "Told in the most vivid and graphic language. It would be difficult to find a more thoroughly delightful gift-book."--_Guardian._ =The Congo Rovers:= A Story of the Slave Squadron. By Harry Collingwood. With 8 full-page Illustrations by J. Schönberg. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "No better sea story has lately been written than the _Congo Rovers_. It is as original as any boy could desire."--_Morning Post._ * * * * * BY ASCOTT R. HOPE. =The Seven Wise Scholars.= By Ascott R. Hope. With nearly One Hundred Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Square 8vo, cloth elegant, gilt edges, _5s._ "As full of fun as a volume of _Punch_; with illustrations, more laughter-provoking than most we have seen since Leech died."--_Sheffield Independent._ "A capital story, full of fun and happy comic fancies. The tale would put the sourest-tempered _boy_ into a good humour, and to an imaginative child would be a source of keen delight."--_Scotsman._ =The Wigwam and the War-path:= stories of the Red Indians. By Ascott R. Hope. With 8 full-page Pictures by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "All the stories are told well, in simple spirited language and with a fulness of detail that make them instructive as well as interesting."--_Journal of Education._ BY G. NORWAY. The Loss of John Humble: What Led to It, and what Came of It. By G. Norway. With 8 full-page Illustrations by John Schönberg. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _5s._ John Humble, an orphan, is sent to sea with his Uncle Rolf, the captain of the _Erl King_, but in the course of certain adventures off the English coast, in which Rolf shows both skill and courage, the boy is left behind at Portsmouth. He escapes from an English gun-brig to a Norwegian vessel, the _Thor_, which is driven from her course in a voyage to Hammerfest, and wrecked on a desolate shore. The survivors experience the miseries of a long sojourn in the Arctic circle, with inadequate means of supporting life, but ultimately, with the aid of some friendly but thievish Lapps, they succeed in making their way to a reindeer station and so southward to Tornea and home again. The story throughout is singularly vivid and truthful in its details, the individual characters are fresh and well marked, and a pleasant vein of humour relieves the stress of the more tragic incidents in the story. BY ROSA MULHOLLAND. Giannetta: A Girl's Story of Herself. By Rosa Mulholland. With 8 full-page Illustrations by Lockhart Bogle. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "Giannetta is a true heroine--warm-hearted, self-sacrificing, and, as all good women nowadays are, largely touched with the enthusiasm of humanity. The illustrations are unusually good, and combine with the binding and printing to make this one of the most attractive gift-books of the season."--_The Academy._ "No better book could be selected for a young girl's reading, as its object is evidently to hold up a mirror, in which are seen some of the brightest and noblest traits in the female character."--_Schoolmistress._ Perseverance Island: Or the Robinson Crusoe of the 19th Century. By Douglas Frazar. With 12 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "This second Robinson Crusoe is certainly a marvellous man. His determination to overcome all difficulties, and his subsequent success, should alone make this a capital book for boys. It is altogether a worthy successor to the ancient Robinson Crusoe."--_Glasgow Herald._ Gulliver's Travels. Illustrated by more than 100 Pictures by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _5s._ "By help of the admirable illustrations, and a little judicious skipping, it has enchanted a family party of ages varying from six to sixty. Which of the other Christmas books could stand this test?"--Journal of Education. "Mr. Gordon Browne is, to my thinking, incomparably the most artistic, spirited, and brilliant of our illustrators of books for boys, and one of the most humorous also, as his illustrations of 'Gulliver' amply testify."--Truth. NEW EDITION OF THE UNIVERSE. =The Universe:= Or the Infinitely Great and the Infinitely Little. A Sketch of Contrasts in Creation, and Marvels revealed and explained by Natural Science. By F.A. Pouchet, M.D. With 272 Engravings on wood, of which 55 are full-page size, and a Coloured Frontispiece. Tenth Edition, medium 8vo, cloth elegant, gilt edges, _7s. 6d._; also morocco antique, _16s._ "We can honestly commend Professor Pouchet's book, which _is_ admirably, as it is copiously illustrated."--_The Times._ "This book is as interesting as the most exciting romance, and a great deal more likely to be remembered to good purpose."--_Standard._ "Scarcely any book in French or in English is so likely to stimulate in the young an interest in the physical phenomena."--_Fortnightly Review._ * * * * * BY GEORGE MAC DONALD. =At the Back of the North Wind.= By George Mac Donald, LL.D. With 75 Illustrations by Arthur Hughes. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _5s._ "In _At the Back of the North Wind_ we stand with one foot in fairyland and one on common earth. The story is thoroughly original, full of fancy and pathos, and underlaid with earnest but not too obtrusive teaching."--_The Times._ =Ranald Bannerman's Boyhood.= By George Mac Donald, LL.D. With 36 Illustrations by Arthur Hughes. New Edition. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _5s._ "The sympathy with boy-nature in _Ranald Bannerman's Boyhood_ is perfect. It is a beautiful picture of childhood, teaching by its impressions and suggestions all noble things."--_British Quarterly Review._ =The Princess and the Goblin.= By George Mac Donald, LL.D. With 30 Illustrations by Arthur Hughes, and 2 full-page Pictures by H. Petherick. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "Little of what is written for children has the lightness of touch and play of fancy which are characteristic of George Mac Donald's fairy tales. Mr. Arthur Hughes's illustrations are all that illustrations should be."--_Manchester Guardian._ "A model of what a child's book ought to be--interesting, instructive, and poetical. We cordially recommend it as one of the very best gift-books we have yet come across."--_Elgin Courant._ =The Princess and Curdie.= By George Mac Donald, LL.D. With 8 full-page Illustrations by James Allen. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "There is the finest and rarest genius in this brilliant story. Upgrown people would do wisely occasionally to lay aside their newspapers and magazines to spend an hour with Curdie and the Princess."--_Sheffield Independent._ =Girl Neighbours:= Or, The Old Fashion and the New. By Sarah Tytler. With 8 full-page Illustrations by C.T. Garland. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _5s._ "One of the most effective and quietly humorous of Miss Sarah Tytler's stories.... Very healthy, very agreeable, and very well written."--_Spectator._ * * * * * BY MARY C. ROWSELL. =Thorndyke Manor:= A Tale of Jacobite Times. By Mary C. Rowsell. With 6 full-page Illustrations by L. Leslie Brooke. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _3s. 6d._ Thorndyke Manor is an old house, near the mouth of the Thames, which is convenient, on account of its secret vaults and situation, as the base of operations in a Jacobite conspiracy. In consequence its owner, a kindly, quiet, book-loving squire, who lives happily with his sister, bright Mistress Amoril, finds himself suddenly involved by a treacherous steward in the closest meshes of the plot. He is conveyed to the Tower, but all difficulties are ultimately overcome, and his innocence is triumphantly proved by his sister. =Traitor or Patriot?= A Tale of the Rye-House Plot. By Mary C. Rowsell. With 6 full-page Pictures. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _3s. 6d._ "A romantic love episode, whose true characters are lifelike beings, not dry sticks as in many historical tales."--_Graphic._ * * * * * BY ALICE CORKRAN. * * * * * =Meg's Friend.= By Alice Corkran. With 6 full-page Illustrations by Robert Fowler. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "Another of Miss Corkran's charming books for girls, narrated in that simple and picturesque style which marks the authoress as one of the first amongst writers for young people."--_The Spectator._ =Margery Merton's Girlhood.= By Alice Corkran. With 6 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "Another book for girls we can warmly commend. There is a delightful piquancy in the experiences and trials of a young English girl who studies painting in Paris."--_Saturday Review._ =Down the Snow Stairs:= Or, From Good-night to Good-morning. By Alice Corkran. With 60 character Illustrations by Gordon Browne. New Edition. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _3s. 6d._ "A fascinating wonder-book for children."--_Athenæum._ "A gem of the first water, bearing upon every page the signet mark of genius. All is told with such simplicity and perfect naturalness that the dream appears to be a solid reality. It is indeed a Little Pilgrim's Progress."--_Christian Leader._ BY JOHN C. HUTCHESON. * * * * * =Afloat at Last:= A Sailor Boy's Log of his Life at Sea. By John C. Hutcheson. With 6 full-page Illustrations by W.H. Overend. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _3s. 6d._ Mr. Hutcheson's reputation for the realistic treatment of life at sea will be fully sustained by the present volume--the narrative of a boy's experiences on board ship during his first voyage. From the stowing of the vessel in the Thames to her recovery from the Pratas Reef on which she is stranded, everything is described with the accuracy of perfect practical knowledge of ships and sailors; and the incidents of the story range from the broad humours of the fo'c's'le to the perils of flight from and fight with the pirates of the China Seas. The captain, the mate, the Irish boatswain, the Portuguese steward, and the Chinese cook, are fresh and cleverly-drawn characters, and the reader throughout has the sense that he is on a real voyage with living men. =The White Squall:= A Story of the Sargasso Sea. By John C. Hutcheson. With 6 full-page Illustrations by John Schönberg. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _3s. 6d._ "Few writers have made such rapid improvement in the course of a few years as has the author of this capital story.... Boys will find it difficult to lay down the book till they have got to the end."--_Standard._ "The sketches of tropical life are so good as sometimes to remind us of _Tom Cringle_ and the _Cruise of the Midge_."--_Times._ =The Wreck of the Nancy Bell:= Or Cast Away on Kerguelen Land. By John C. Hutcheson. Illustrated by 6 full-page Pictures. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "A full circumstantial narrative such as boys delight in. The ship so sadly destined to wreck on Kerguelen Land is manned by a very lifelike party, passengers and crew. The life in the Antarctic Iceland is well treated."--_Athenæum._ =Picked Up at Sea:= Or the Gold Miners of Minturne Creek. By John C. Hutcheson. With 6 full-page Pictures. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "The author's success with this book is so marked that it may well encourage him to further efforts. The description of mining life in the Far-west is true and accurate."--_Standard._ =Sir Walter's Ward:= A Tale of the Crusades. By William Everard. With 6 full-page Illustrations by Walter Paget. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "This book will prove a very acceptable present either to boys or girls. Both alike will take an interest in the career of Dodo, in spite of his unheroic name, and follow him through his numerous and exciting adventures."--_Academy._ =Stories Of Old Renown:= Tales of Knights and Heroes. By Ascott R. Hope. With 100 Illustrations by Gordon Browne. New Edition. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _3s. 6d._ "A really fascinating book worthy of its telling title. There is, we venture to say, not a dull page in the book, not a story which will not bear a second reading."--_Guardian._ BY CAROLINE AUSTIN. * * * * * =Cousin Geoffrey and I.= By Caroline Austin. With 6 full-page Illustrations by W. Parkinson. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _3s. 6d._ The only daughter of a country gentleman finds herself unprovided for at her father's death, and for some time lives as a dependant upon the kinsman who has inherited the property. Life is kept from being entirely unbearable to her by her young cousin Geoffrey, who at length meets with a serious accident for which she is held responsible. She is then passed on to other relatives, who prove even more objectionable, and at length, in despair, she runs away and makes a brave attempt to earn her own livelihood. Being a splendid rider, she succeeds in doing this, until the startling event which brings her cousin Geoffrey and herself together again, and solves the problem of the missing will. =Hugh Herbert's Inheritance.= By Caroline Austin. With 6 full-page Illustrations by C.T. Garland. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _3s. 6d._ "Will please by its simplicity, its tenderness, and its healthy interesting motive. It is admirably written."--_Scotsman._ "Well and gracefully written, full of interest, and excellent in tone."--_School Guardian._ * * * * * BY E.S. BROOKS. * * * * * =Storied Holidays:= A Cycle of Red-letter Days. By E.S. Brooks. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Howard Pyle. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _3s. 6d._ "It is a downright good book for a senior boy, and is eminently readable from first to last."--_Schoolmaster._ "Replete with interest from Chapter I. to _finis_, and can be confidently recommended as one of the gems of Messrs. Blackie's collection."--_Teachers' Aid._ =Chivalric Days:= Stories of Courtesy and Courage in the Olden Times. By E.S. Brooks. With 20 Illustrations by Gordon Browne and other Artists. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "We have seldom come across a prettier collection of tales. These charming stories of boys and girls of olden days are no mere fictitious or imaginary sketches, but are real and actual records of their sayings and doings. The illustrations are in Gordon Browne's happiest style."--_Literary World._ =Historic Boys:= Their Endeavours, their Achievements, and their Times. By E.S. Brooks. With 12 full-page Illustrations by R.B. Birch and John Schönberg. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "A wholesome book, manly in tone, its character sketches enlivened by brisk dialogue. We advise schoolmasters to put it on their list of prizes."--_Knowledge._ BY MRS. E.R. PITMAN. * * * * * =Garnered Sheaves.= A Tale for Boys. By Mrs. E.R. Pitman. With 4 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "This is a story of the best sort ... a noble-looking book, illustrating faith in God, and commending to young minds all that is pure and true."--Rev. C.H. Spurgeon's _Sword and Trowel_. =Life's Daily Ministry:= A Story of Everyday Service for others. By Mrs. E.R. Pitman. With 4 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "Shows exquisite touches of a master hand. She has not only made a close study of human nature in all its phases, but she has acquired the artist's skill in depicting in graphic outline the characteristics of the beautiful and the good in life."--_Christian Union._ =My Governess Life:= Or Earning my Living. By Mrs. E.R. Pitman. With 4 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "Full of sound teaching and bright examples of character."--_Sunday-school Chronicle._ * * * * * BY MRS. R.H. READ. * * * * * =Silver Mill:= A Tale of the Don Valley. By Mrs. R.H. Read. With 6 full-page Illustrations by John Schönberg. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _3s. 6d._ "A good girl's story-book. The plot is interesting, and the heroine, Ruth, a lady by birth, though brought up in a humble station, well deserves the more elevated position in which the end of the book leaves her. The pictures are very spirited."--_Saturday Review._ =Dora:= Or a Girl without a Home. By Mrs. R.H. Read. With 6 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _3s. 6d._ "It is no slight thing, in an age of rubbish, to get a story so pure and healthy as this."--_The Academy._ * * * * * BY ELIZABETH J. LYSAGHT. * * * * * =Brother and Sister:= Or the Trials of the Moore Family. By Elizabeth J. Lysaght. With 6 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "A pretty story, and well told. The plot is cleverly constructed, and the moral is excellent."--_Athenæum._ =Laugh and Learn:= A Home-book of Instruction and Amusement for the Little Ones. By Jennett Humphreys. Charmingly Illustrated. Square crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ _Laugh and Learn_, a most comprehensive book for the nursery, supplies, what has long been wanted, a means whereby the mother or the governess may, in a series of pleasing lessons, commence and carry on systematic home instruction of the little ones. The various chapters of the _Learn_ section carry the child through the "three R's" to easy stories for reading, and stories which the mother may read aloud, or which more advanced children may read to themselves. The Laugh section comprises simple drawing lessons, home amusements of every kind, innumerable pleasant games and occupations, rhymes to be learnt, songs for the very little ones, action songs, and music drill. =The Search for the Talisman:= A Story of Labrador. By Henry Frith. With 6 full-page Illustrations by J. Schönberg. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _3s. 6d._ "Mr. Frith's volume will be among those most read and highest valued. The adventures among seals, whales, and icebergs in Labrador will delight many a young reader, and at the same time give him an opportunity to widen his knowledge of the Esquimaux, the heroes of many tales."--_Pall Mall Gazette._ =Self-Exiled:= A Story of the High Seas and East Africa. By J.A. Steuart. With 6 full-page Illustrations by J. Schönberg. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _3s. 6d._ "It is cram full of thrilling situations. The number of miraculous escapes from death in all its shapes which the hero experiences in the course of a few months must be sufficient to satisfy the most voracious appetite."--_Schoolmaster._ =Reefer and Rifleman:= A Tale of the Two Services. By J. Percy-Groves, late 27th Inniskillings. With 6 full-page Illustrations by John Schönberg. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _3s. 6d._ "A good, old-fashioned, amphibious story of our fighting with the Frenchmen in the beginning of our century, with a fair sprinkling of fun and frolic."--_Times._ =The Bubbling Teapot.= A Wonder Story. By Mrs. L.W. Champney. With 12 full-page Pictures by Walter Satterlee. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "Very literally a 'wonder story,' and a wild and fanciful one. Nevertheless it is made realistic enough, and there is a good deal of information to be gained from it. The steam from the magic teapot bubbles up into a girl, and the little girl, when the fancy takes her, can cry herself back into a teapot. Transformed and enchanted she makes the tour of the globe."--_The Times._ =Dr. Jolliffe's Boys:= A Tale of Weston School. By Lewis Hough. With 6 full-page Pictures. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "Young people who appreciate _Tom Brown's School-days_ will find this story a worthy companion to that fascinating book. There is the same manliness of tone, truthfulness of outline, avoidance of exaggeration and caricature, and healthy morality as characterized the masterpiece of Mr. Hughes."--_Newcastle Journal._ BLACKIE'S HALF-CROWN SERIES. Illustrated by eminent Artists. In crown 8vo, cloth elegant. * * * * * New Volumes. =The Hermit Hunter of the Wilds.= By Gordon Stables, C.M., M.D., R.N. A dreamy boy, who likes to picture himself as the Hermit Hunter of the Wilds, receives an original but excellent kind of training from a sailor-naturalist uncle, and at length goes to sea with the hope of one day finding the lost son of his uncle's close friend, Captain Herbert. He succeeds in tracing him through the forests of Ecuador, where the abducted boy has become an Indian chief. Afterwards he is discovered on an island which had been used as a treasure store by the buccaneers. The hero is accompanied through his many adventures by the very king of cats, who deserves a place amongst the most famous animals in fiction. =Miriam's Ambition:= A Story for Children. By Evelyn Everett-Green. Miriam's ambition is to make some one happy, and her endeavour to carry it out in the case of an invalid boy, carries with it a pleasant train of romantic incident, solving a mystery which had thrown a shadow over several lives. A charming foil to her grave and earnest elder sister is to be found in Miss Babs, a small coquette of five, whose humorous child-talk is one of the most attractive features of an excellent story. =White Lilac:= Or The Queen of the May. By Amy Walton. When the vicar's wife proposed to call Mrs. White's daughter by the heathen name of Lilac, all the villagers shook their heads; and they continued to shake them sagely when Lilac's father was shot dead by poachers just before the christening, and when, years after, her mother died on the very day Lilac was crowned Queen of the May. And yet White Lilac proved a fortune to the relatives to whose charge she fell--a veritable good brownie, who brought luck wherever she went. The story of her life forms a most readable and admirable rustic idyl, and is told with a fine sense of rustic character. * * * * * =Little Lady Clare.= By Evelyn Everett-Green. "Certainly one of the prettiest, reminding us in its quaintness and tender pathos of Mrs. Ewing's delightful tales. This is quite one of the best stories Miss Green's clever pen has yet given us."--_Literary World._ "We would particularly bring it under the notice of those in charge of girls' schools. The story is admirably told."--_Schoolmaster._ =The Eversley Secrets.= By Evelyn Everett-Green. "Is one of the best children's stories of the year."--_Academy._ "A clever and well-told story. Roy Eversley is a very touching picture of high principle and unshrinking self-devotion in a good purpose."--_Guardian._ =The Brig "Audacious."= By Alan Cole. "This is a real boys' book. We have great pleasure in recommending it."--_English Teacher._ "Bright and vivacious in style, and fresh and wholesome as a breath of sea air in tone."--_Court Journal._ =The Saucy May.= By H. Frith. "The book is certainly both interesting and exciting."--_Spectator._ "Mr. Frith gives a new picture of life on the ocean wave which will be acceptable to all young people."--_Sheffield Independent._ =Jasper's Conquest.= By Elizabeth J. Lysaght. "One of the best boys' books of the season. It is full of stirring adventure and startling episodes, and yet conveys a splendid moral throughout."--_Schoolmaster._ =Sturdy and Strong:= Or, How George Andrews made his Way. By G.A. Henty. "The history of a hero of everyday life, whose love of truth, clothing of modesty, and innate pluck carry him, naturally, from poverty to affluence. He stands as a good instance of chivalry in domestic life."--_The Empire._ =Gutta-Percha Willie=, The Working Genius. By George Mac Donald, LL.D. "Had we space we would fain quote page after page. All we have room to say is, get it for your boys and girls to read for themselves, and if they can't do that read it to them."--_Practical Teacher._ =The War of the Axe:= Or Adventures in South Africa. By J. Percy-Groves. "The story of their final escape from the Caffres is a marvellous bit of writing.... The story is well and brilliantly told, and the illustrations are especially good and effective."--_Literary World._ =The Lads of Little Clayton:= Stories of Village Boy Life. By R. Stead. "A capital book for boys. They will learn from its pages what true boy courage is. They will learn further to avoid all that is petty and mean if they read the tales aright. They may be read to a class with great profit."--_Schoolmaster._ =Ten Boys= who lived on the Road from Long Ago to Now. By Jane Andrews. With 20 Illustrations. "The idea of this book is a very happy one, and is admirably carried out. We have followed the whole course of the work with exquisite pleasure. Teachers should find it particularly interesting and suggestive."--_Practical Teacher._ =Insect Ways on Summer Days= in Garden, Forest, Field, and Stream. By Jennett Humphreys. With 70 Illustrations. "The book will prove not only instructive but delightful to every child whose mind is beginning to inquire and reflect upon the wonders of nature. It is capitally illustrated and very tastefully bound."--_Academy._ =A Waif of the Sea:= Or the Lost Found. By Kate Wood. "A very touching and pretty tale of town and country, full of pathos and interest, told in a style which deserves the highest praise."--_Edinburgh Courant._ =Winnie's Secret:= A Story of Faith and Patience. By Kate Wood. "One of the best story-books we have read. Girls will be charmed with the tale, and delighted that everything turns out so well."--_Schoolmaster._ =Miss Willowburn's Offer.= By Sarah Doudney. "Patience Willowburn is one of Miss Doudney's best creations, and is the one personality in the story which can be said to give it the character of a book not for young ladies but for girls."--_Spectator._ =A Garland for Girls.= By Louisa M. Alcott. "The _Garland_ will delight our girls, and show them how to make their lives fragrant with good deeds."--_British Weekly._ "These little tales are the beau ideal of girls' stories."--_Christian World._ =Hetty Gray:= Or Nobody's Bairn. By Rosa Mulholland. "A charming story for young folks. Hetty is a delightful creature--piquant, tender, and true--and her varying fortunes are perfectly realistic."--_World._' =Brothers in Arms:= A Story of the Crusades. By F. Bayford Harrison. "Full of striking incident, is very fairly illustrated, and may safely be chosen as sure to prove interesting to young people of both sexes."--_Guardian._ =The Ball Of Fortune:= Or Ned Somerset's Inheritance. By Charles Pearce. "A capital story for boys. It is simply and brightly written. There is plenty of incident, and the interest is sustained throughout."--_Journal of Education._ =Miss Fenwick's Failures:= Or "Peggy Pepper-Pot." By Esmé Stuart. "Esmé Stuart may be commended for producing a girl true to real life, who will put no nonsense into young heads."--_Graphic._ =Gytha's Message:= A Tale of Saxon England. By Emma Leslie. "This is a charmingly told story. It is the sort of book that all girls and some boys like, and can only get good from."--_Journal of Education._ =My Mistress the Queen:= A Tale of the 17th Century. By M.A. Paull. "The style is pure and graceful, the presentation of manners and character has been well studied, and the story is full of interest."--_Scotsman._ "This is a charming book. The old-time sentiment which pervades the volume renders it all the more alluring."--_Western Mercury._ =The Stories of Wasa and Menzikoff:= The Deliverer of Sweden, and the Favourite of Czar Peter. "Both are stories worth telling more than once, and it is a happy thought to have put them side by side. Plutarch himself has no more suggestive comparison."--_Spectator._ =Stories of the Sea in Former Days:= Narratives of Wreck and Rescue. "Next to an original sea-tale of sustained interest come well-sketched collections of maritime peril and suffering which awaken the sympathies by the realism of fact. 'Stories of the Sea' are a very good specimen of the kind."--_The Times._ =Tales of Captivity and Exile.= "It would be difficult to place in the hands of young people a book which combines interest and instruction in a higher degree."--_Manchester Courier._ =Famous Discoveries by Sea and Land.= "Such a volume may providentially stir up some youths by the divine fire kindled by these 'great of old' to lay open other lands, and show their vast resources."--_Perthshire Advertiser._ =Stirring Events of History.= "The volume will fairly hold its place among those which make the smaller ways of history pleasant and attractive. It is a gift-book in which the interest will not be exhausted with one reading."--_Guardian._ =Adventures in Field, Flood, and Forest.= Stories of Danger and Daring. "One of the series of books for young people which Messrs. Blackie' excel in producing. The editor has beyond all question succeeded admirably. The present book cannot fail to be read with interest and advantage."--_Academy._ =Jack o' Lanthorn:= A Tale of Adventure. By Henry Frith. "The narrative is crushed full of stirring incident, and _is_ sure to be a prime favourite with our boys, who will be assisted by it in mastering a sufficiently exciting chapter in the history of England."--_Christian Leader._ =The Family Failing.= By Darley Dale. "At once an amusing and an interesting story, and a capital lesson on the value of contentedness to young and old alike."--_Aberdeen Journal._ =The Joyous Story of Toto.= By Laura E. Richards. With 30 humorous and fanciful Illustrations by E.H. Garrett. "An excellent book for children who are old enough to appreciate a little delicate humour. It should take its place beside Lewis Carroll's unique works, and find a special place in the affections of boys and girls."--_Birmingham Gazette._ =BLACKIE'S TWO-SHILLING SERIES.= With Illustrations in Colour and black and tint. In crown 8vo, cloth elegant. * * * * * New Volumes. =Sam Silvan'S Sacrifice:= The Story of Two Fatherless Boys. By Jesse Colman. The story of two brothers--the elder a lad of good and steady disposition; the younger nervous and finely-strung, but weaker and more selfish. The death of their grandparents, by whom they are being brought up, leads to their passing through a number of adventures in uncomfortable homes and among strange people. In the end the elder brother's generous care results in his sacrificing his own life to save that of his brother, who realizes when it is too late the full measure of his indebtedness. =A Warrior King:= The Story of a Boy's Adventures in Africa. By J. Evelyn. A story full of adventure and romantic interest. Adrian Englefield, an English boy of sixteen, accompanies his father on a journey of exploration inland from the West Coast. He falls into the hands of the Berinaquas, and becomes the friend of their prince, Moryosi, but is on the point of being sacrificed when he is saved by the capture of the kraelah by a neighbouring hostile tribe. He is soon after retaken by the Berinaquas, and saves the life of Moryosi. The two tribes are ultimately united, and Adrian and his friends are set at liberty. * * * * * =Susan.= By Amy Walton. "A clever little story, written with some humour. The authoress shows a great deal of insight into children's feelings and motives."--_Pall Mall Gazette._ ="A Pair of Clogs:"= And other Stories. By Amy Walton. "These stories are decidedly interesting, and unusually true to nature. For children between nine and fourteen this book can be thoroughly commended."--_Academy._ =The Hawthorns.= By Amy Walton. "A remarkably vivid and clever study of child-life. At this species of work Amy Walton has no superior."--_Christian Leader._ =Dorothy's Dilemma:= A Tale of the Time of Charles I. By Caroline Austin. "An exceptionally well-told story, and will be warmly welcomed by children. The little heroine, Dorothy, is a charming creation."--_Court Journal._ =Marie's Home:= Or, A Glimpse of the Past. By Caroline Austin. "An exquisitely told story. The heroine is as fine a type of girlhood as one could wish to set before our little British damsels of to-day."--_Christian Leader._ =Warner's Chase:= Or the Gentle Heart. By Annie S. Swan. "In Milly Warren, the heroine, who softens the hard heart of her rich uncle and thus unwittingly restores the family fortunes, we have a fine ideal of real womanly goodness."--_Schoolmaster._ "A good book for boys and girls. There is no sickly goodyism in it, but a tone of quiet and true religion that keeps its own place."--_Perthshire Advertiser._ =Aboard the "Atalanta:"= The Story of a Truant. By Henry Frith. "The story is very interesting and the descriptions most graphic. We doubt if any boy after reading it would be tempted to the great mistake of running away from school under almost any pretext whatever."--_Practical Teacher._ =The Penang Pirate= and The Lost Pinnace. By John C. Hutcheson. "A book which boys will thoroughly enjoy: rattling, adventurous, and romantic, and the stories are thoroughly healthy in tone."--_Aberdeen Journal._ =Teddy:= The Story of a "Little Pickle." By John C. Hutcheson. "He is an amusing little fellow with a rich fund of animal spirits, and when at length he goes to sea with Uncle Jack he speedily sobers down under the discipline of life."--_Saturday Review._ =Linda and the Boys.= By Cecilia Selby Lowndes. "The book is essentially a child's book, and will be heartily appreciated by the young folk."--_The Academy._ "Is not only told in an artless, simple way, but is full of the kind of humour that children love."--_Liverpool Mercury._ =Swiss Stories for Children and those who Love Children.= From the German of Madam Johanna Spyri. By Lucy Wheelock. "Charming stories. They are rich in local colouring, and, what is better, in genuine pathos."--_The Times._ "These most delightful children's tales are essentially for children, but would fascinate older and less enthusiastic minds with their delicate romance and the admirable portraiture of the hard life of the Swiss peasantry."--_Spectator._ =The Squire's Grandson:= A Devonshire Story. By J.M. Callwell. "A healthy tone pervades this story, and the lessons of courage, filial affection, and devotion to duty on the part of the young hero cannot fail to favourably impress all young readers."--_Schoolmaster._ =Magna Charta Stories:= Or Struggles for Freedom in the Olden Time. Edited by Arthur Gilman, A.M. With 12 full-page Illustrations. "A book of special excellence, which ought to be in the hands of all boys."--_Educational News._ =The Wings Of Courage:= And The Cloud-Spinner. Translated from the French of George Sand, by Mrs. Corkran. "Mrs. Corkran has earned our gratitude by translating into readable English these two charming little stories."--_Athenæum._ =Chirp and Chatter:= Or, Lessons from Field and Tree. By Alice Banks. With 54 Illustrations by Gordon Browne. "We see the humbling influence of love on the haughty harvest-mouse, we are touched by the sensibility of the tender-hearted ant, and may profit by the moral of 'the disobedient maggot.' The drawings are spirited and funny."--_The Times._ =Four Little Mischiefs.= By Rosa Mulholland. "Graphically written, and abounds in touches of genuine humour and innocent fun."--_Freeman._ "A charming bright story about real children."--_Watchman._ =New Light through Old Windows.= A Series of Stories illustrating Fables of �sop. By Gregson Gow. "The most delightfully-written little stories one can easily find in the literature of the season. Well constructed and brightly told."--_Glasgow Herald._ =Little Tottie=, and Two Other Stories. By Thomas Archer. "We can warmly commend all three stories; the book is a most alluring prize for the younger ones."--_Schoolmaster._ =Naughty Miss Bunny:= Her Tricks and Troubles. By Clara Mulholland. "This naughty child is positively delightful. Papas should not omit _Naughty Miss Bunny_ from their list of juvenile presents."--_Land and Water._ =Adventures of Mrs. Wishing-to-be=, and other Stories. By Alice Corkran. "Simply a charming book for little girls."--_Saturday Review._ "Just in the style and spirit to win the hearts of children."--_Daily News._ =Our Dolly:= Her Words and Ways. By Mrs. R.H. Read. With many Woodcuts, and a Frontispiece in colours. "Prettily told and prettily illustrated."--_Guardian._ "Sure to be a great favourite with young children."--_School Guardian._ =Fairy Fancy:= What she Heard and Saw. By Mrs. R.H. Read. With many Woodcuts and a Coloured Frontispiece. "All is pleasant, nice reading, with a little knowledge of natural history and other matters gently introduced and divested of dryness."--_Practical Teacher._ =BLACKIE'S EIGHTEENPENNY SERIES.= With Illustrations in Colour, and black and tint. In crown 8vo, cloth elegant. * * * * * New Volumes. =Tales of Daring and Danger.= By G.A. Henty. A selection of five of Mr. Henty's short stories of adventure by land and sea. The volume contains the narrative of an officer's bear-shooting expedition, and his subsequent captivity among the Dacoits; a strange tale of an Indian fakir and two British officers; a tale of the gold-diggings at Pine-tree Gulch, in which a boy saves, at the cost of his own life, a miner who had befriended him, and two others. =The Seven Golden Keys.= By James E. Arnold. Hilda gains entrance into fairy-land, and is there shown a golden casket with seven locks. To obtain the treasure it contains, it is necessary that she should make seven journeys to find the keys, and in her travels she passes through a number of adventures and learns seven important lessons--to speak the truth, to be kind, not to trust to appearances, to hold fast to all that is good, &c. It is one of the most interesting of recent fairy-books, as well as one of the most instructive. =The Story of a Queen.= By Mary C. Rowsell. A pleasant version for young people of the romantic story of Marie of Brabant, the young queen of Philip the Bold of France. Though the interest centres in a heroine rather than in a hero, the book has no lack of adventure, and will be read with no less eagerness by boys than by girls. To the latter it will give a fine example of patient, strong and noble woman-hood, to the former it will teach many lessons in truthfulness and chivalry. =Joan's Adventures=, At the North Pole and Elsewhere. By Alice Corkran. "This is a most delightful fairy story. The charming style and easy prose narrative makes its resemblance striking to Hans Andersen's."--_Spectator._ =Edwy:= Or, Was he a Coward? By Annette Lyster. "This is a charming story, and sufficiently varied to suit children of all ages."--_The Academy._ =Filled with Gold.= By Jennie Perrett. "The tale is interesting, and gracefully told. Miss Perrett's description of life on the quiet Jersey farm will have a great charm."--_Spectator._ =The Battlefield Treasure.= By F. Bayford Harrison. "Jack Warren is a lad of the Tom Brown type, and his search for treasure and the sequel are sure to prove interesting to boys."--_English Teacher._ =By Order of Queen Maude:= A Story of Home Life. By Louisa Crow. "The tale is brightly and cleverly told, and forms one of the best children's books which the season has produced."--_Academy._ =Our General:= A Story for Girls. By Elizabeth J. Lysaght. "A young girl of indomitable spirit, to whom all instinctively turn for guidance--a noble pattern for girls."--_Guardian._ =Aunt Hesba's Charge.= By Elizabeth J. Lysaght. "This well-written book tells how a maiden aunt is softened by the influence of two Indian children who are unexpectedly left upon her hands. Mrs. Lysaght's style is bright and pleasant."--_Academy._ =Into the Haven.= By Annie S. Swan. "No story more attractive, by reason of its breezy freshness, as well as for the practical lessons it conveys."--_Christian Leader._ =Our Frank:= And other Stories. By Amy Walton. "These stories are of the sort that children of the clever kind are sure to like."--_Academy._ =The Late Miss Hollingford.= By Rosa Mulholland. "No book for girls published this season approaches this in the charm of its telling, which will be equally appreciated by persons of all ages."--_Standard._ =The Pedlar and His Dog.= By Mary C. Rowsell. "The opening chapter, with its description of Necton Fair, will forcibly remind many readers of George Eliot. Taken altogether it is a delightful story."--_Western Morning News._ =Yarns on the Beach.= By G.A. Henty. "This little book should find special favour among boys. The yarns are full of romance and adventure, and are admirably calculated to foster a manly spirit."--_The Echo._ =A Terrible Coward.= By G. Manville Fenn. "Just such a tale as boys will delight to read, and as they are certain to profit by."--_Aberdeen Journal._ =Tom Finch's Monkey:= And other Yarns. By J.C. Hutcheson. "Stories of an altogether unexceptionable character, with adventures sufficient for a dozen books of its size."--_U. Service Gazette._ =Miss Grantley's Girls=, And the Stories She Told Them. By Thomas Archer. "For fireside reading more wholesome and highly entertaining reading for young people could not be found."--_Northern Chronicle._ =Down and Up Again:= Being some Account of the Felton Family, and the Odd People they Met. By Gregson Gow. "The story is very neatly told, with some fairly dramatic incidents, and calculated altogether to please young people."--_Scotsman._ =The Troubles and Triumphs of Little Tim.= A City Story. By Gregson Gow. "An undercurrent of sympathy with the struggles of the poor, and an ability to describe their feelings, eminently characteristic of Dickens, are marked features in Mr. Gow's story."--_N.B. Mail._ =The Happy Lad:= A Story of Peasant Life in Norway. From the Norwegian of Björnson. "This pretty story has natural eloquence which seems to carry us back to some of the love stories of the Bible."--_Aberdeen Free Press._ =The Patriot Martyr:= And other Narratives of Female Heroism in Peace and War. "It should be read with interest by every girl who loves to learn what her sex can accomplish in times of danger."--_Bristol Times._ =Madge's Mistake:= A Recollection of Girlhood. By Annie E. Armstrong. "We cannot speak too highly of this delightful little tale. It abounds in interesting and laughable incidents."--_Bristol Times._ =Box of Stories.= Packed for Young Folk by Horace Happyman. =When I was a Boy in China.= By Yan Phou Lee, a native of China, now resident in the United States. Illustrated. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _1s. 6d._ "This little book has the advantage of having been written not only by a Chinaman, but by a man of culture. His book is as interesting to adults as it is to children."--_The Guardian._ "Not only exceedingly interesting, but of great informative value, for it gives to English readers a peep into the interior and private life of China such as has perhaps never before been afforded."--_The Scottish Leader._ * * * * * THE SHILLING SERIES OF BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. Square 16mo, neatly bound in cloth extra. Each book contains 128 pages and a Coloured Illustration. * * * * * New Volumes. =Mr. Lipscombe's Apples.= By Julia Goddard. =Gladys: or the Sister's Charge.= By E. O'Byrne. =A Gypsy against Her Will.= By Emma Leslie. =The Castle on the Shore.= By Isabel Hornibrook. =An Emigrant Boy's Story.= By Ascott R. Hope. =Jock and his Friend.= By Cora Langton. =John a' Dale.= By Mary C. Rowsell. =In the Summer Holidays.= By Jennett Humphreys. =How the Strike Began.= By Emma Leslie. =Tales from the Russian of Madame Kubalensky.= By G. Jenner. =Cinderella's Cousin, and Other Stories.= By Penelope. =Their New Home.= By Annie S. Fenn. =Janie's Holiday.= By C. Redford. =A Boy Musician:= Or, the Young Days of Mozart. =Hatto's Tower.= By Mary C. Rowsell. =Fairy Lovebairn's Favourites.= By J. Dickinson. =Alf Jetsam:= or Found Afloat. By Mrs. George Cupples. =The Redfords:= An Emigrant Story. By Mrs. George Cupples. =Missy.= By F. Bayford Harrison. =Hidden Seed:= or, A Year in a Girl's Life. By Emma Leslie. =Ursula's Aunt.= By Annie S. Fenn. =Jack's Two Sovereigns.= By Annie S. Fenn. =A Little Adventurer:= or How Tommy Trefit went to look for his Father. By Gregson Gow. =Olive Mount.= By Annie S. Fenn. =Three Little Ones.= Their Haps and Mishaps. By C. Langton. =Tom Watkins' Mistake.= By Emma Leslie. =Two Little Brothers.= By M. Harriet M. Capes. =The New Boy at Merriton.= By Julia Goddard. =The Children of Haycombe.= By Annie S. Fenn. =The Cruise of the "Petrel."= By F.M. Holmes. =The Wise Princess.= By M. Harriet M. Capes. =The Blind Boy of Dresden and his Sister.= =Jon of Iceland:= A Story of the Far North. =Stories from Shakespeare.= =Every Man In his Place:= Or a City Boy and a Forest Boy. =Fireside Fairies and Flower Fancies.= Stories for Girls. =To the Sea in Ships:= Stories of Suffering and Saving at Sea. =Jack's Victory:= and other Stories about Dogs. =Story of a King=, told by one of his Soldiers. =Prince Alexis=, or "Beauty and the Beast." =Little Daniel:= a Story of a Flood on the Rhine. =Sasha the Serf:= and other Stories of Russian Life. =True Stories of Foreign History.= * * * * * _THE ILLUSTRATIONS THROUGHOUT PRINTED IN COLOURS._ 4TO, ONE SHILLING EACH. =GORDON BROWNE'S SERIES OF OLD FAIRY TALES.= 1. HOP O' MY THUMB. 2. BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. Each book contains 32 pages 4to, and is illustrated on every page by Pictures printed in colours. =THE NINEPENNY SERIES OF BOOKS FOR CHILDREN.= Neatly bound in cloth extra. Each contains 96 pages and a Coloured Illustration. * * * * * New Volumes. =Things will Take a Turn.= By Beatrice Harraden. =The Lost Thimble:= and other Stories. By Mrs. Musgrave. =Max or Baby:= the Story of a very Little Boy. By Ismay Thorn. =Jack-a-Dandy:= or the Heir of Castle Fergus. By E.J. Lysaght. =A Day of Adventures:= A Story for little Girls. By Charlotte Wyatt. =The Golden Plums=, and other Stories. By Frances Clare. =The Queen of Squats.= By Isabel Hornibrook. =Shucks:= A Story for Boys. By Emma Leslie. =Sylvia Brooke.= By M. Harriet M. Capes. =The Little Cousin.= By A.S. Fenn. =In Cloudland.= By Mrs. Musgrave. =Jack and the Gypsies.= By Kate Wood. =Hans the Painter.= By Mary C. Rowsell. =Little Troublesome.= By Isabel Hornibrook. =My Lady May:= And one other Story. By Harriet Boultwood. =A Little Hero.= By Mrs. Musgrave. =Prince Jon's Pilgrimage.= By Jessie Fleming. =Harold's Ambition:= Or a Dream of Fame. By Jennie Perrett. =Sepperl the Drummer Boy.= By Mary C. Rowsell. =Aboard the Mersey.= By Mrs. George Cupples. =A Blind Pupil.= By Annie S. Fenn. =Lost and Found.= By Mrs. Carl Rother. =Fisherman Grim.= By Mary C. Rowsell. "The same good character pervades all these books. They are admirably adapted for the young. The lessons deduced are such as to mould children's minds in a good groove. We cannot too highly commend them for their excellence."--_Schoolmistress._ * * * * * =SOMETHING FOR THE VERY LITTLE ONES.= Fully Illustrated with Woodcuts and Coloured Plates. 64 pp., 32mo, cloth. Sixpence each. =Tales Easy and Small= for the Youngest of All. In no word will you see more letters than three. By Jennett Humphreys. =Old Dick Grey= and Aunt Kate's Way. Stories in little words of not more than four letters. By Jennett Humphreys. =Maud's Doll and Her Walk.= In Picture and Talk. In little words of not more than four letters. By Jennett Humphreys. =In Holiday Time.= And other Stories. In little words of not more than five letters. By Jennett Humphreys. =Whisk and Buzz.= By Mrs. A.H. Garlick. =THE SIXPENNY SERIES FOR CHILDREN.= Neatly bound in cloth extra. Each contains 64 pages and a Coloured Cut. =A Little Man of War.= By L.E. Tiddeman. =Lady Daisy.= By Caroline Stewart. =Dew.= By H. Mary Wilson. =Chris's Old Violin.= By J. Lockhart. =Mischievous Jack.= By A. Corkran. =The Twins.= By L.E. Tiddeman. =Pet's Project.= By Cora Langton. =The Chosen Treat.= By Charlotte Wyatt. =Little Neighbours.= By Annie S. Fenn. =Jim:= A Story of Child Life. By Christian Burke. =Little Curiosity:= Or, A German Christmas. By J.M. Callwell. =Sara the Wool-gatherer.= By W.L. Rooper. =Fairy Stories:= told by Penelope. =A New Year's Tale:= and other Stories. From the German. By M.A. Currie. =Little Mop:= and other Stories. By Mrs. Charles Bray. =The Tree Cake:= and other Stories. By W.L. Rooper. =Nurse Peggy, and Little Dog Trip.= =Fanny's King.= By Darley Dale. =Wild Marsh Marigolds.= By D. Dale. =Kitty's Cousin.= By Hannah B. Mackenzie. =Cleared at Last.= By Julia Goddard. =Little Dolly Forbes.= By Annie S. Fenn. =A Year with Nellie.= By A.S. Fenn. =The Little Brown Bird.= =The Maid of Domremy:= and other Tales. =Little Eric:= a Story of Honesty. =Uncle Ben the Whaler.= =The Palace of Luxury.= =The Charcoal Burner.= =Willy Black:= a Story of Doing Right. =The Horse and His Ways.= =The Shoemaker's Present.= =Lights to Walk by.= =The Little Merchant.= =Nicholina:= a Story about an Iceberg. "A very praiseworthy series of Prize Books. Most of the stories are designed to enforce some important moral lesson, such as honesty, industry, kindness, helpfulness."--_School Guardian._ * * * * * =A SERIES OF FOURPENNY REWARD BOOKS.= Each 64 pages, 18mo, Illustrated, in Picture Boards. =A Start in Life.= By J. Lockhart. =Happy Childhood.= By Aimée de Venoix Dawson. =Dorothy's Clock.= By Do. =Toddy.= By L.E. Tiddeman. =Stories about my Dolls.= By Felicia Melancthon. =Stories about my Cat Timothy.= =Delia's Boots.= By W.L. Rooper. =Lost on the Rocks.= By R. Scotter. =A Kitten's Adventures.= By Caroline Stewart. =Holidays at Sunnycroft.= By Annie S. Swan. =Climbing the Hill.= By Do. =A Year at Coverley.= By Do. =Phil Foster.= By J. Lockhart. =Papa's Birthday.= By W.L. Rooper. =The Charm Fairy.= By Penelope. =Little Tales for Little Children.= By M.A. Currie. =Worthy of Trust.= By H.B. Mackenzie. =Brave and True.= By Gregson Gow. =Johnnie Tupper's Temptation.= Do. =Maudie and Bertie.= Do. =The Children and the Water-Lily.= By Julia Goddard. =Poor Tom Olliver.= By Do. =Fritz's Experiment.= By Letitia M'Lintock. =Lucy's Christmas-Box.= LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, 49 OLD BAILEY, E.C. GLASGOW, EDINBURGH, AND DUBLIN. [Transcriber's Note: The following section was at the beginning of the book in the original copy.] MR. HENTY'S HISTORICAL TALES. _Crown 8vo, Cloth elegant, Olivine edges. Each Book is beautifully Illustrated._ The Cat of Bubastes: A Story of Ancient Egypt. _5s._ The Young Carthaginian: A Story of the Times of Hannibal. _6s._ For the Temple: A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem. _6s._ The Lion of St. Mark: A Story of Venice in the 14th Century. 6s. The Lion of the North: A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus and the Wars of Religion. _6s._ In the Reign of Terror: The Adventures of a Westminster Boy during the French Revolution. _5s._ The Dragon and the Raven: Or, The Days of King Alfred. _5s._ In Freedom's Cause: A Story of Wallace and Bruce. _6s._ St. George for England: A Tale of Cressy and Poitiers. _5s._ Under Drake's Flag: A Tale of the Spanish Main. _6s._ Orange and Green: A Tale of the Boyne and Limerick. _5s._ Bonnie Prince Charlie: A Tale of Fontenoy and Culloden. _6s._ The Bravest of the Brave: Or, With Peterborough in Spain. _5s._ With Wolfe in Canada: Or, The Winning of a Continent. _6s._ With Clive in India: Or, The Beginnings of an Empire. _6s._ True to the Old Flag: A Tale of the American War of Independence. _6s._ Through the Fray: A Story of the Luddite Riots. _6s._ By Sheer Pluck: A Tale of the Ashanti War. _5s._ For Name and Fame: Or, Through Afghan Passes. _5s._ LONDON: BLACKIE & SON: GLASGOW AND EDINBURGH. 
36606	----	The Ruby Sword A Romance of Baluchistan By Bertram Mitford Illustrations by Harold Pifford Published by F.V. White and Co, London. The Ruby Sword, by Bertram Mitford. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ THE RUBY SWORD, BY BERTRAM MITFORD. CHAPTER ONE. THE GHAZIS. "We love to roam, the wide world our home, As the rushing whirlwind free; O'er sea and land, and foreign strand, Who would not a wanderer be! "To the far off scenes of our youthful dreams With a lightsome heart we go; On the willing hack, or the charger's back, Or the weary camel slow." Thus sang the wayfarer to himself as he urged a potentially willing, but certainly very tired hack along the stony, sandy road which wound gradually up the defile; now overhanging a broad, dry watercourse, now threading an expanse of stunted juniper--the whole constituting a most depressing waste, destitute alike of animal, bird--or even insect--life. The wayfarer sang to keep up his spirits, for the desolation of the surroundings had already begun to get upon his nerves. He was thoroughly tired out, and very thirsty, a combination of discomfort which is apt to get upon one's temper as well. His steed, a sorry quadruped at best, seemed hardly able to put one leg before another, wearied out with a long day's march over arid plains, where the sun blazed down as a vast burning-glass upon slabs of rock and mounds of dry soil, streaked white here and there with gypsum--and now the ascent, gradual as it was, of the mountain defile had about finished both horse and rider. Twice had the latter dismounted, with a view to sparing his worn-out steed by leading it. But the exasperating quadruped, in shameful disregard of the superabundant intelligence wherewith popular superstition persists in endowing that noble--but intensely stupid-- animal the horse, flatly refused to be led; standing stockstill with every attempt. So his efforts in the cause of combined humanity and expediency thus defeated, the wayfarer had no alternative but to keep his saddle, where, sitting wearily, and with feet kicked limply from the stirrups, he now and then swung a spur-armed heel into the bony ribs-- which incentive had about as much effect as if applied to an ordinary jog the while he went on half singing, half humming, to himself: "There's a charm in the crag, there's a charm in the cloud, There's a charm in the earthquake's throe; When the hills are wrapt in a moonlit shroud There's a charm in the glacier's snow. "We bask in the blaze of the sun's bright rays By the murmuring river's flow; And we scale the peak of the mountain steep, And gaze on the storms below. "For use around a snug camp fire, that would be an excellent traveller's song," said this one to himself--"But in the present instance I fear it will be `gaze on the storms _above_,' and I don't like it." Away up the pass a dark curtain of cloud, ominous and now growing inky black in the subdued light following upon sunset, seemed to justify the wayfarer's foreboding. It was distant enough as yet, but hung right over what would surely be the said wayfarer's path. "No, I don't like it," he went on, talking out loud to himself as he frequently did when travelling alone. "It looks very like a night in the open; nothing to eat, though there'll be plenty to drink presently in the shape of rain-water, no shelter unless one can light upon an overhanging rock. A sweet country to be landed down in without any of the appliances of civilisation, and, from all accounts, not altogether a safe one for the homeless wanderer. Decidedly the prospect is gaudy. It positively corruscates with cheerfulness." For which grim irony there was ample justification. Sundown had brought no abatement of the boding oppressive heat, wherein not a breath of air was stirring. Great hills shot up to the fast glooming sky on either hand; now from the edge of the road itself, now from the valley bottom, in no part of great width--beyond the stony bed of the dry watercourse; their sides cleft here and there from base to summit by a jagged, perpendicular rift--black and cavernous--their serrated ridges piled on high in a confused jumble of sharp peak and castellated formation--the home of the markhoor and mountain sheep. Here a smooth, unbroken slab of rock, sloping at the well nigh precipitous angle of a high-pitched roof--there, at an easier slant, a great expanse of rock face, seamed and criss-crossed with chasms, like the crevasses on a glacier. No vegetation, either, to relieve the all pervading, depressing greyness, save where a ragged juniper or pistachio had found anchor along a ledge, or fringed the lip of some dark chasm aforesaid. No turn of the road brought any relief to the eye--any lifting of the unconscious oppression which lay upon the mind; ever the same hills, sheering aloft, fearsome in their dark ruggedness, conveying the idea of vast and wellnigh untrodden fastnesses, grim, repellent, mysterious. Nor below did variety lie; the same lifeless juniper forest, its dreary trees set wide apart, its stoniness in places concealed by a coarse growth of grass, or sparse and stunted shrub. For of such are the wild mountain tracts of Baluchistan. From an adjacent crag a raven croaked. The hoarse "cauk-cauk" cleft the air with a startling suddenness, breaking in as it did upon the lifeless and boding silence. High overhead a huge bird of prey circled in the now glooming twilight, as though searching with lingering reluctance for some sign of life, where there was no life, ere seeking its roost among the black recesses of yon cliff-walled chasm. "The sole signs of life emblems of fierce predatoriness and death--" thought the wayfarer to himself. Very meet, indeed, for the surroundings in which they were set. Below, ere leaving the plain country, he had passed flocks of black-haired goats grazing, in charge of armed herdsmen; or now and again a string of camels and asses--the motive power of a party of wandering Baluchis. Some had given him the "_Salaam_," and some had scowled resentfully at him as an intruder and an infidel; but even of these he would almost gladly have welcomed the sight now, so entirely depressing was the utter lifelessness of this uninhabited land. Yet it could not be entirely uninhabited, for here and there he had passed patches of corn land in the valley bottom, which must have been under cultivation at one time, though now abandoned. The cloud-curtain away in front began to give forth red fitful gleams, and once or twice a low boom of distant thunder stirred the atmospheric stillness. But the double crash that burst from the hillside now--those red jets of flame--meant no war of the elements. At the same time, with a buzzing, humming noise, something passed over the wayfarer's head. Even the weary, played out steed was startled into a snort and a shy. The rider, on his part, was not a little startled too, as he recalled the evil reputation of the hill tribesmen, and realised that he himself was at that moment constituting a target to some of these. Still, he would not show alarm if he could help it. "_Salaam_!" he shouted, raising his right hand with the palm outward and open; a peace sign recognised by other barbarians among whom he had at one time moved. "_Salaam_!" And his gaze was fixed anxiously upon the group of boulders whence the shots had been fired. For a moment there was no answer--Then it came--took shape, indeed, after a fashion that was sufficiently alarming. Five figures sprang from their place of concealment--five tall, copper-coloured, hook-nosed barbarians, their fierce eyes gleaming with fanatical and racial hatred--their black hair flowing in long locks beneath their ample white turbans. Each held aloft a wicked looking, curved sword, and two carried jezails, whose muzzles still smoked from the shots just fired from them. All this the wayfarer took in as in a lightning flash, as these wild beings whirled down upon him. Their terrific aspect--the white quiver of the naked swords, their ferocious yells stunning his ears, conveyed meaning enough. He realised that this was a time to run--not to fight. Luckily the horse, forgetting for the moment its weariness in the terror of this sudden onslaught, sprang forward without waiting for the spurs now rammed so hard and deep into its ribs. But the assailants had chosen their ground well. The road here made a sudden descent--and was rough and stony withal. The fleet-footed mountaineers could travel as fast as the horse. Their flight over that rugged ground seemed as the flight of a bird. The foremost, wellnigh alongside, held his sword ready for a fatal sweep. The awful devilish look on the face of this savage appalled the traveller. It was now or never. He put his hand behind him; then, pointing the revolver straight at his assailant, pressed the trigger. The pistol was small, but hard driving. At such close quarters it could not miss. The barbarian seemed to double up--and fell backwards on to his head, flinging his arms in the air--his sword falling, with a metallic clang, several yards away among the stones. Just that brief delay saved the traveller. His assailants, now reduced to four, halted but momentarily to look at their stricken comrade, and by dint of rowelling the sides of his steed until the blood flowed freely, he was able to keep the exhausted animal as near to a gallop as it was capable of attaining. But the respite was brief. Their bloodcurdling yells perfectly demoniacal now, the barbarians leaped forward in pursuit. They seemed to fly. The tired horse could never hope to outstrip them. And as he thus fled, the wayfarer felt the cold shadow of Death's portal already chill upon his brow, for he realised that his chances were practically _nil_. He had heard of the "Ghazi" mania, which combined the uncontrollable fighting frenzy of the old Norse Berserk with the fervid fury of religious fanaticism. There was no warfare then existing with any of the tribes of Baluchistan. These people, therefore, were Ghazis, the most desperate and dangerous enemies to deal with, because utterly fearless, utterly reckless. He had still five chambers in his pistol, but the weapon was small, and quite unreliable, save at point blank--in which case his enemies would cut him down before he had time to account for more than one of themselves. All this flashed through his mind. Then he realised that the ferocious yelling had ceased. He looked back. A turn in the road hid the pursuers from view, and now it was nearly dark. But the darkness brought hope. Had they abandoned the pursuit? Or could he not conceal himself in some of the holes and crevices on the stony hillside until they should be tired of searching? Still keeping his steed at its best speed--and that was not great--so as to ensure a good start, he held on, warily listening for any sound of his pursuers--and thus covered about two miles. A thunder peal rolled heavily--its echoes reverberating from crag to crag--and the cloud-curtain in front was alive with a dazzle of sheeting flame, which lit up the road and the dreary landscape like noonday. By its light he looked back. Still no sign of the pursuers, whose white flowing garments could not have failed to catch his eye. Hope--strong hope-- rekindled within him. But not for long. His horse, thoroughly blown, dropped into a walk. A walk? A crawl rather, for the poor beast staggered along, its flanks heaving violently, swaying at times, as though the mere effort to drag one leg after another would bring it down, and once down well its rider knew there would be no more rising. And then? One man--alone, dismounted, inadequately armed--in the vast heart of an unknown country, tracked down by fleet-footed pitiless destroyers, stung to a frenzy of massacre by a twofold incentive--blood feud for a comrade slain, and the fanatical dictates--or supposed dictates--of the most merciless religion in the world. There could be but one end. Again he dismounted. The horse, relieved of so much weight, seemed to pant less distressingly. Every moment thus lost was a moment gained by his bloodthirsty enemies to come up with him, yet he felt it to be the wisest policy to spare his steed to the very utmost. Then he climbed into the saddle once more. Now the storm was wellnigh overhead. The thunder roared and crashed, and great drops of rain shone like silver in the momentary dazzle of the lightning gleam--In that livid flare, too, the peaks stood forth on high, silhouetted against the heavens, and every bough of the ragged juniper trees was clearly and delicately defined. Something else, too, was clearly but appallingly defined--to wit, four white-clad figures--with bronzed faces and flowing hair and flaming eyes; and the sheen and flash of four curved naked swords. They had been running in silence hitherto--but now--with a deafening howl they hurled themselves forward on their prey-- Without even cocking his revolver, the hunted man dropped it to the present and pressed the trigger. It would not move. Then he drew up the hammer--no--tried to--It, too, would not move. The cylinder was jammed. The cartridges--which he had purchased at one of those large co-operative stores, where they sell many things, but nothing reliable-- were too tight a fit. The weapon was as useless as a bit of stick. With a bitter curse upon the pettifogging dishonesty of his trading fellow countrymen, the now desperate man wrenched off one of the stirrups--not a bad weapon at a pinch--But once more fortune befriended him. The horse, spurred by terror to one more effort, plunged down the road, which now made a sudden descent. The stunning report of a jezail, which the Ghazis had presumably stopped to reload, added to its terror, but the missile hummed harmlessly by. And now in the ceaseless gleam of the lightning, the fugitive saw right before him at the base of the slope, the wide stony bed of a watercourse. On, on, on, anyhow--though where safety lay was too great a hope to enter his despairing brain--Then, drawing nearer and nearer from the hills on his right came a strange, swirling, rushing roar. It was not the thunder. It had a note of its own as it boomed louder and louder with every second. It was as the breaking of surf against the base of an echoing cliff. And as another vivid lightning flash lit up the whole landscape with a noonday flare, the traveller beheld a sight that was appalling in its wild terror. A wall of water was sweeping down the dry nullah--a vast brown muddy wave, many feet high. His escape was cut off. Yet not. So far it had not reached the point where the road crossed. Could he be before it there was safety. Otherwise death, either way. In the nullah now, the slipping, stumbling horsehoofs were flashing up showers of sparks in the blackness--Then another lightning gleam. The fugitive glanced to the right, then wished he had not. The advancing flood, tossing against the livid sky, was so awful as to unnerve him, and he was just half way across. The four Ghazis arrived on the bank, but even they shrank back from the roaring terror of that wave wall. But the remaining loaded jezail spoke--and the miserable steed, stricken by the missile, plunged forward, throwing the rider hard upon his head. The wild triumph scream of the furious fanatics, leaping like demons in the lightning's glare, was drowned by the bellowing voice of the flood. It poured by--and now the whole wide bed of the watercourse was a very hell of seething roaring waves. But on the further side from the bloodthirsty Ghazis lay the motionless form of a man--He lay at full length, face downwards, and the swirling eddies on the extreme edge of the furious flood were just washing the soles of his riding boots, and leaving little wisps of twigs and straws sticking in his upturned spurs. CHAPTER TWO. THROUGH FLOOD. Ernest Aurelius Upward was the chief official in charge of the Government forests of Baluchistan. Now the said "forests" had about as much affinity to the idea of sylvan wildness conveyed by that term as many of the Highland so-called deer forests; in that they were mainly distinguishable by a conspicuous lack of trees; such trees as there were consisting wellnigh entirely of the stunted, profitless, and utterly unpicturesque juniper, which straggling over the slopes of the hills and devoid of undergrowth imparted to the arid and stony landscape somewhat of the aspect of a vast continental burying-ground, badly kept and three parts forgotten. Being thus devoid of undergrowth, the land was proportionately depleted of wild life, since game requires covert. This added not to its attractions in the eyes of Ernest Aurelius, who was a keen Nimrod. He had been a mighty slayer of tiger during an experience of many years spent in the Indian forest service. Long indeed was the death roll of "Stripes" when that energetic official was around with rifle and camp outfit among the jungly hills of his North West Province section. Of panther he had long since ceased to keep count, while cheetul or blackbuck he reckoned in with such small game as partridge or snipe. We have said that the great rugged slopes and towering crags of his present charge still held the markhor and wild mountain sheep; but Upward was not so young as he had been and remembering the fine times he had had with the far easier _shikar_ of the lower country, frankly declared his distaste for the hard labour involved in swarming up all manner of inaccessible heights at all sorts of unearthly hours of the day or night on the off-chance of one precarious shot. So the _gadh_ and markhor, so far as he was concerned, went unmolested. But its lack of sport notwithstanding, his present charge had its compensations. Life in camp among these elevated mountain ranges was healthful and not unpleasant. At an altitude of anything up to 8,000 feet the air stirred keen and fresh, and the climate of Shalalai, the cantonment station where he had his headquarters in the shape of a snug, roomy bungalow and a garden in which he took much pride, was appreciated alike by himself and others, to whom recollection was still vivid of the torrid, enervating exhaustion of plains stations. Furthermore his term of retirement was not many years distant and on the whole, Upward found no great reason for discontent. And now as we first make his personal acquaintance, he is riding slowly across the valley bottom towards his camp. His mackintosh is streaming with wet, and the collar tucked up to his ears, for the rain is falling in a steady pitiless downpour. Two men of his Pathan forest guard walk behind, one carrying his master's gun, the other a few brace of chikor or grey partridge, an abominable unsporting biped, whom no amount of education will convince of his duty to rise and be shot. The evening has closed in wet and stormy, and the lightning gleam sheds its red blaze upon the white tents of the camp. These tents, in number about a dozen, are pitched among the trees of an apricot tope, whose leafage is just beginning to bud forth anew after the devastations of a flight of locusts. In front the valley bottom is open and comparatively level but behind, the mountain range rises rugged and abrupt--its face cleft by the black jaws of a fine _tangi_, narrow, but with perpendicular sides rising to an altitude of several hundred feet. This picturesquely forbidding chasm acts in rainy weather as a feeder to the now dry watercourse on whose bank the camp is pitched. The lamps are already lighted, and in one of the larger tents a lady is seated reading. She looks up as Upward enters. "What sport have you had, Ernest?" "Only seven brace and a half." "Oh come, that's not so bad. Are you very wet?" "No--but my Terai hat is about spoiled; wish I had put on another," flinging off the soaked headgear in question. "These beastly storms crop up every afternoon now, and always at the same time. There's no fun in going out shooting. Khola, _Peg lao_." The well trained bearer, who has been assisting his master out of his soaked mackintosh, moves swiftly and noiselessly in quest of the needed "peg." "Well, I'll go and change. Where are the girls?" "In their own tent. Hurry up though. Dinner must be quite ready." By the time Upward is dried and toiletted--a process which does not take him long--"the girls" are in. Two of them are not yet out of the short frock stage. These are his own children, and are aged fourteen and twelve respectively. The third, however, who is a couple of years beyond her teens, is no relation, but a guest. "Did you have any sport, Mr Upward?" says the latter, as they sat down to table. "No--there's no sport in chikor shooting. The chikor is the most unsporting bird in the world. He won't rise to be shot at." "What on earth do we stay on here for then?" says the elder of the two children, who, like many Indian and colonially raised children, is not slow to volunteer an opinion. "I wish we were going back to Shalalai to-morrow." "So do I," cuts in the other promptly. "Oh--do you!" responds her parent mingling for himself a "peg"--"Why, the other day you were all for getting into camp. You were sick of Shalalai, and everybody in it." "Well, we are not now. It's beastly here, and always raining," says the younger one, teasing a little fox terrier under the table until it yelps and snarls. "Do go on with your dinner, Hazel, and leave the dog alone," urges her mother in the mildest tone of gentle remonstrance. "Oh, all right," with a pout and flounce. She is a queer, dark-complexioned little elf is Hazel, with a vast mane of hair nearly as large as herself--and loth to accept reproof or injunction without protest--The other laughs meaningly, and then a squabble arises--for they are prone to squabbling--which is finally quelled. "Well, and what do you think, Miss Cheriton?" says Upward turning to their guest, when this desirable result has been achieved. "Are you sick of camp yet?" "N-no--I don't think I am--At least--of course I'm not." "I'm afraid Nesta does find it slow," puts in Mrs Upward--But before Nesta Cheriton can utter a disclaimer, the other of the two children gives a whistle. "Lily, my dear girl!" expostulates her mother. "I can't help it. Slow? I should think Nesta did find it slow. Why, she was only saying this morning she'd give ten years of her life for a little excitement." "Lily is simply `embroidering,' Mr Upward," pleads Nesta, with a bright laugh. "I said--at anytime--not only now or here." "We could have found you excitement enough in some of my other districts. You could have come after tiger with me." "Oh no--no! That isn't the kind of thing I mean--And I can't think how Mrs Upward could have done it"--with a glance at the latter. For this gentle, refined looking woman with the pretty eyes and soft, charmful manner, had stood by her husband's side when the striped demon of the jungle, maddened with his wounds, ears laid back and eyes flashing green flame, had swooped upon them in lightning charge, uttering that awful coughing roar calculated to unnerve the stoutest of hearts--to drop, as though lightning-struck, before the heavy Express bullet directed by a steady hand and unflinching brain. "Well, the kind of excitement you mean will roll up in a day or two in the shape of Bracebrydge and Fleming"--replies Upward, with a genial twinkle in his eyes--"they want to come after the chikor. It's rather a nuisance--This place won't carry two camps. But I say, Miss Cheriton, those fellows wont do any chikor shooting." "Why not?--Isn't that what they are coming for?" "Oh, yes. But then, you see, when the time comes to go out, each of them will make some excuse to remain behind--or to double back. Neither will want to leave the field open to the other." "Ah, but--I don't care for either of them," laughed Nesta, not pretending to misunderstand his meaning. "Not? Why everybody is in love with Bracebrydge--or he thinks they are--There's only one thing I must warn you against, and that is not to spell his name with an `I'. There are two girls in Shalalai to my knowledge who wrecked all their chances on that rock." "Nonsense Ernest"--laughed his wife. "How can you talk such a lot of rubbish? To talk sense now. I wonder when Mr Campian will turn up?" "Any day or no day. Campian's such an uncertain bird. He never knows his own plans himself. If he didn't know whether he was coming overland from Bombay or round by sea to Karachi, I don't see how I can. Anyway, I wrote him to the B.I. agents at Karachi telling him how to get to Shalalai, and left a letter there for him telling him how to get here. I couldn't do more. Khola, cheroot, _lao_." Dinner was over now, and very snug the interior of the tent looked in the cheerful lamplight, as Upward, selecting a cheroot from the box the bearer had just deposited in front of him, proceeded to puff away contentedly. The rain pattered with monotonous regularity on the canvas, and, reverberating among the crags, the thunder rolled in deep-toned boom. "Beastly sort of night," said Upward, flicking the ash from his cheroot. "The storm's passing over though. By Jove! I shouldn't wonder if it brought the _tangi_ down. It must be falling heavy in that catchment area." A shade of alarm came into Nesta Cheriton's face. "Should we be--er--quite safe here if it did?" she asked. "Rather," said Upward. "The water comes through the _tangi_ itself like an express train, but the nullah widens out below and runs off the water. No fear. It has never been up as high as this. In fact, it couldn't. By George! What was that?" The two younger girls had got out cards and were deep in some game productive of much squabbling. The conversation among their elders had been carried on in an easy, placid, after-dinner tone. But through all there came, distinctly audible, the sound of a sharp, heavy report, not so very distant either. "That's a shot, I'll swear!" cried Upward excitedly, rising to his feet and listening intently. "Thunder? No fear. It's a shot. No mistaking a shot. But who the deuce would be firing shots here and at this time of night? Shut up Tinkles--shut up you little _soor_!" as the little fox terrier charged savagely towards the purdah, uttering shrill, excited barks. Various emotions were manifest on the countenances of the listeners--one or two even expressing a shade akin to fear. As they stood thus, with nerves at tension, a new sound rushed forth upon the silence of the night--a sort of hollow, bellowing roar--nearer and nearer--louder and louder. "The _tangi_!" cried Upward. "By George! the _tangi_ is down." "Hurrah! hurrah!" crowed Lily, clapping her hands. "Let's go and look at it. Come along, Nesta. Here's some excitement at last!" "Wait for the lantern. Wait--wait--do you hear?" cried her mother. "It's very dark; you might tumble in." "Oh, hang the lantern," grumbled Lily. "The water will have passed by that time, and I want to see it rush out." She had her wish, however, for the lantern being quickly lighted, the whole party stepped forth into the rain and the darkness. At first nothing was visible, but as the radius of light struck upon the vertical jaws of the great black chasm, they stopped for a moment, awed, appalled--almost instinctively stepping back. Forth from those vertical jaws vomited a perfect terror of roaring, raging water. It was more like a vast spout than a mere stream was this awful flood; of inky blackness save where the broken waves, meeting a projection, seethed and hissed; and, amid the deafening tumult, the rattle of rocks, loosened from their bed, and shot along like timber by the velocity of the waters, mingled with the crash of tree trunks against the smooth cliff walls of the rift. In a moment, with a roar like a thunder burst, it had spread itself over the dry face of the nullah, which was now rolling many feet deep of mountainous swirling waves. For a few moments they stood contemplating the wild tumult by the light of the lantern. Then Mrs Upward, her voice hardly audible through the bellowing of the waters, said: "Now girls, we'd better go in. It's raining hard still." This drew a vehement protest from Hazel and Lily. It was such fun watching the flood, they urged. What did it matter about a little rain? and so forth. But Tinkles, the little fox terrier, was now barking furiously at something or other unseen, keeping, however, very close to her master's legs, for all her expenditure of vocal ferocity. Then a voice came out of the darkness--a male voice which, although soft and pleasing, caused Nesta Cheriton to start and cling involuntary to Upward's arm. "_Huzoor_!" [A form of greeting more deferential than the better known "Sahib."] "What is it, Bhallu Khan?" said Upward, as the voice and the light of the lantern revealed the chief forest guard. The latter now began speaking quickly in Hindustani. Had the _Huzoor_ heard anything? Yes? Well there was something going on yonder. Just before the _tangi_ came down there was a shot fired. It was on the other side of the nullah. Something was going on. Now Bhallu Khan was inclined to be long-winded in his statements. It was raining smartly, and Upward grew impatient. "I don't see what we can do," he bellowed through the roar of the water. "We can't even go and see what's up. The _tangi_ is down, and the _tumasha_, whatever it is, was on the other side." "Not all the time, _Huzoor_," urged the forest guard. "While the roar of the water was yet distant, we heard a strange noise--yes, a very strange noise--It was as the clatter of hoofs in the bed of the dry nullah, of shod hoofs. And then there was another shot--and the hoof-strokes seemed to cease. Then the water came down and we could hear no more of anything." "Eh! another shot!" cried Upward, now thoroughly startled. "Why, what the devil is the meaning of it?" This last escaped him in English--and it brought the whole party around him, now all ears, regardless of the rain. Only Nesta was out of it--not understanding Hindustani. It was where the road crosses the nullah, Bhallu Khan explained. He could not tell what it might be, but thought he had better inform the _Huzoor_. It might even be worth while going that far to see if there was anything to find out. "Yes, let's go!"--cut in Lily. "Hurrah! here's a new excitement!" "Let's go!" echoed her father sharply. "To bed, you mean. So off you go there, both of you. Come--clear in--quick! Likely one wants a lot of children fooling about in the dark on a night like this." Heedless of their grumbling protest, Upward dived into his tent, and, quickly arming himself with his magazine rifle and revolver, he came forth. Bhallu Khan he instructed to bring another of the forest guard to accompany them while a third was left to look after the camp. In the darkness and rain they took their way along the bank of the flood--Upward hardly knowing what he was expecting to find. The country was wild, and its inhabitants wilder still. Quite recently there had been an upheaval of lawlessness among a section of the powerful and restless Marri tribe. What if some bloody deed of vendetta, or tribal feud, had been worked out here, almost at his very door? He stumbled along through the wet, coarse tussocks, peering here and there as the forest guard held the lantern before him--his rifle ready. He hardly expected to find anything living, but there was a weird creepiness about this nocturnal quest after something sinister and mysterious that moved him by sheer instinct to defensive preparation. Twice he started, as the dark form of a half-stranded tree trunk with its twisted limbs suggested the find of some human body--ghastly with wounds--distorted with an agonising death. Suddenly Bhallu Khan stopped short, and with a hurried and whispered exclamation held up the lantern, while pointing to something in front. Something which lay half in, half out of the water. Something which all felt rather than saw had had life, even if life were no longer in it. No tree trunk this time, but a human body. Dead or alive, however, they were only just in time, for even as they looked the swirl of an eddy threw a volume of water from the middle of the trunk right over the neck--so quickly had the flood risen. "Here--give me the lantern--And you two pull him out, sharp," said Upward. This, to the two stalwart hillmen, was but the work of a moment. Then an exclamation escaped Bhallu Khan. "It is a sahib!" he cried. Upward bent over the prostrate form, holding the light to the face. Then it became his turn to start in amazement. "Good God! it's Campian!" he exclaimed--"Campian himself. But how the devil did he get here like this, and--Is he alive or dead?" "He is alive, _Huzoor_," answered Bhallu Khan, who had been scrutinising the unconscious features from the other side. CHAPTER THREE. THE FOREST CAMP. The following morning broke bright and clear, and save that there was a coolness in the air, and the bed of the _tangi_ which had poured forth its black volume of roaring destruction the night before was wet and washed out--no trace of the wild whirl of the elements would now be visible. Campian awoke, feeling fairly restored, though as he opened his eyes after his sound and heavy sleep he could hardly recall where he was, or what had happened--nor in fact, did he particularly care whether he could recall it or not. This frame of mind lasted for some time, then his faculties began to reassert themselves. The events of the previous night came back to him--the long, wearisome journey, the exhausted steed, the sudden onslaught of the Ghazis, the pursuit--then that last desperate effort for life--the rolling flood, the jezail shot, and-- oblivion. Now a thought struck him. Where was he? In a tent. But whose tent? Was he a captive in the hands of his recent assailants? Hardly. This was not the sort of treatment he would have met at their hands, even if the unmistakably European aspect of all the fittings and tent furniture did not speak for themselves. And at that moment, as though to dispel all further grounds of conjecture, the purdah was moved aside and somebody stole softly in. Campian closed his eyes, surveying this unexpected visitant through the lids. Then he opened them. "That you, Upward, or am I dreaming?" "It's me right enough, old chap. How are you feeling--eh? A bit buzzy still? How's the head?" "Just as you put it--a bit buzzy. But I say, where are we?" "In camp, at Chirria Bach." "So? And where the devil might Chirria Bach be? I was bound for Gushki. Thought you were there." "Didn't you get my letter at Shalalai, saying we were going into camp?" said Upward. "Not any. I got one--There was nothing about camp in it--It told me to come on to Gushki. But I fell in with two Johnnies there who were going on a chikor shoot, and wanted me to cut in--I did--hence concluded to find my way here across country instead of by the usual route. I'm fond of that sort of thing, you know." "Where are your things--and how is it you are all alone? This isn't the country to ride around in like that--all alone--I can tell you." "So I've discovered." And then he narrated the events of the previous day's journey up to the time of his falling unconscious in the riverbed. "Well you've had a devilish narrow squeak, old chap," pronounced Upward, when he had done. "Do you know, if it hadn't been for old Bhallu Khan, my head forest guard, hearing your gee scrambling through the nullah, you would never have been seen again. We heard the first shot. It seemed fishy, but it was no use bothering about it, because it was on the other side of the water. Then the _tangi_ coming down kicked up such a row that we couldn't hear ourselves speak, let alone hear the other shot. You were more than half in the water when we found you, and--I've been down to the place this morning--and the water has been over more than twice your own length from where you were lying when we hauled you out. Lucky old Bhallu Khan heard the racket--eh?" "Rather. But, I say, Upward, I shot one of those brigands. Likely to be trouble raised over that?" Upward looked grave. "You never can tell," he said. "You see, in a case of that sort, the Government has a say in the matter. Don't give away anything about the shooting to anybody for the present, and we'll think over what is best to be done--or not done--Perhaps you only winged your man." "I hope so, if it will save any further bother. But, it's a dashed cool thing assailing a peaceable traveller in that way. There's no sort of war on here?" "No, but the fact of your being alone and unarmed--unarmed, at least, so far as they could see--was a temptation to those devils. They hate us like poison since we took over the country and prevented them--or tried to prevent them--from cutting each other's throats, so they are not likely to let slip an opportunity of cutting ours instead." "And after that first shot, practically I was unarmed, thanks to the swindling rascality of the British huckster in guaranteeing ammunition that jammed in the pistol. No more co-operative stores for me, thanks." Now again the purdah was lifted, and the bearer appeared, bringing in tea and toast. Salaaming to Campian, he told his master that the _mem-sahib_ would like to see him for a moment Upward, responding to the call, promptly received a lecture for not merely allowing, but actively inducing, the patient to talk too much. It could not be good for one just recovering from a shock to the head to talk--especially on exciting topics--and so on--and so on. Meanwhile in another tent Nesta Cheriton and the two younger girls were discussing the somewhat tragic arrival of the expected guest. To the former, however, his personality appealed more than the somewhat startling manner of his arrival. "But what is he like, Lily?" she was saying--not quite for the first time. "Oh! I told you before," snapped Lily, waxing impatient, and burying her nose in a book--She was wont to be petulant when disturbed in the midst of an absorbing tale. "He's rather fun," replied Hazel. "He isn't young, though. He's not as old as father--still he isn't young." "I expect he's quite an old fogey," said Lily. "I don't want to talk about him any more," which reply moved Hazel to cackle elfishly, while cutting weird capers expressive of the vein mischievous. "Rather. He's quite an old fogey. Isn't he, Lily?" "I wish you'd shut up," snapped that young person. "Can't you see I want to read?" But later on, viz about tiffin time, Campian being recovered enough to put in an appearance, Nesta found good and sufficient reasons for the reversal of her former verdict. As Hazel had said, the new arrival was not young; yet her own term, "quite an old fogey," in no sense applied. And the reversal of her said verdict took this form: "He'll do." This indeed, in its not very occult meaning, might have held good were the stranger even less qualified for her approval than she decided at a glance he was--for they had been quite a fortnight in camp, and on any male--save Upward, middle-aged and _range_, Nesta Cheriton's very attractive blue eyes had not rested during precisely that period. And such deficiency had to her already come to spell boredom. In Shalalai the British army of all branches of the service had been at her feet, and this for obvious reasons. She was young, attractive beyond the ordinary, and a new importation. Now the feminine counterpart of the British army as represented in Shalalai, though in some cases young, was unattractive wellnigh without exception. Furthermore, it was by no means new--wherefore Nesta had things all her own way; for Shalalai, for social and every other purpose, _was_ the British army--Upward and the agent to the governor-general being nearly the only civilians in the place. So in Shalalai Nesta was happy, for the British army, having as usual when not in active service, nothing particular to do, swarmed around her in multifold adoration. "Last time we saw each other we hardly reckoned to meet in such tragic fashion, did we, Mrs Upward?" said Campian, as they sat down to tiffin. "I only hope I haven't drawn down the ire of a vast and vendetta nourishing tribe upon your peaceful camp." "Oh, we're not nervous. The people who attacked you belong in all probability right the other end of the country," she answered, easily. "I sent over to Gushki to let the political agent know about it," said Upward. "Likely they'll send back a brace of Levy sowars to have a look round. Not that that'll do any good, for these darned `catch-'em-alive-ohs' are all tarred with the same brush. They're raised in the same country, you see." "Seems to me a right casual section this same country," said Campian. "You are all never tired of laying down what entirely unreliable villains these border tribes are, yet you simply put yourselves at their mercy. I'll be bound to say, for instance, that there's no such thing as a watch kept over this camp at night, or any other." "No, there isn't Tinkles here, though, would pretty soon let us know if any one came too close." "Yes, but not until they were on you. Say four or five like those who tackled me--or even more--made up their minds to come for you some night, what then? Why, they'd be in the tents hacking you to bits before you had time to move a finger." "Ghazis don't go to work that way, Campian. They come for you in the open, and never break out with the premeditation a rush upon a camp would involve." "I've often thought the same," struck in Nesta. "I get quite nervous sometimes, lying awake at night. Every sound outside makes me start. Fancy nothing between you and all that may be in that horrible darkness, but a strip of canvas. And the light seems to make it worse. I can never shake off the idea that I can be seen." "Why don't you put out the light then, Miss Cheriton?" "Because I'm more frightened still to be in the dark. Ah now--you're laughing at me"--she broke off, in a pretty gesture of protest. The stranger was contemplating her narrowly, without seeming to. Good specimen of her type was his decision, but these fair haired, blue-eyed girls, though pretty enough as pictures, have seldom any depth. Self conscious at every turn, though not aware of it, or, at any rate of showing that she was. Pretty? Oh, yes, no mistake about that--knows what suits her, too. Whether this diagnosis was entirely accurate remains to be seen--that its latter part was, a glance at Nesta left no doubt. She was attired in white and light blue, which matched admirably her eyes and golden hair, and she looked wonderfully attractive. The suspicion of sunbrown which darkened her complexion had the effect of setting off the vivid whiteness of her even teeth when she smiled. And then her whole face would light up. "What would you like to do this afternoon, old chap?" said Upward, as tiffin over, the bearer placed the cheroot box on the table. "Don't feel up to going after chikor, I suppose?" "Well, I don't know. I think I do. But I left my shot gun down at Chotiali with my other things." "You'd much better sit still and keep yourself quiet for the rest of the day, Mr Campian," warned Mrs Upward. "A nasty fall on the head isn't a thing to be trifled with, especially in hot climates. I've seen too much of that sort of thing in my time." But the warning was overruled. Campian declared himself sufficiently recovered, provided there was no hard climbing to be done. Tiffin had set him up entirely. "Do just as you like, old chap," said Upward. "You can use my gun. I don't care about chikor. They are the rottenest form of game bird I know. Won't rise, for one thing." "Let's all go," suggested Lily. "We can keep behind. And we shall see how many misses Mr Campian makes," she added, with her natural cheekiness. "It's hardly fair," objected the proposed victim--"I, the only gunner, too--Why, all this `gallery' is bound to get on my nerves." "Never mind--you can put it down to your fall, if you do miss a lot," suggested Nesta. "Well, we'd better start soon, and not go too far either, for I shouldn't wonder if this evening turned out as bad as last," said Upward, rising from table. "Khola--Call Bhallu Khan." The bearer replied that he was in front of the tent. "So this is the man whose sharp hearing was the saving of my life?" said Campian, as the head forester extended his salaam to him--And he put out his hand. The forester, a middle-aged Pathan of the Kakar tribe, was a fine specimen of his race. He looked picturesque enough in his white loose garments, his head crowned with the "Kulla," or conical cap, round which was wound a snowy turban. He had eyes and teeth which a woman might have envied, and as he grasped the hand extended to him, the expression of his face was pleasing and attractive in the extreme. "By Jove, Upward, this man is as different a type to the ruffians who came for me last night as the proverbial chalk and cheese simile," remarked Campian, as they started for the shooting place. "They were hook-nosed scoundrels with long hair and the expression of the devil, whereas this chap looks as if he couldn't hurt a fly. He has an awfully good face." "Oh, he has. Still, with Mohamedans you never can be absolutely certain. Any question of fanaticism or semi-religious war, and they're all alike. We've had too many instances of that." "Oh, come now, Ernest. You mustn't class good old Bhallu Khan with that sort of native," struck in his wife. "If there was any sort of rising I believe he'd stand by us with his life." "I believe so too. Still, as I say, with Mohamedans you can never tell. Look, Campian, this is where we found you last night. Here's where you were lying, and here's where the water came up to during the night." Campian looked somewhat grave as he contemplated the jagged edge of sticks and straws which demarcated the water-line, and remembered that awful advancing wave bellowing down upon him. "Yes--It was a near thing," he said--"a very near thing." But a word from the forester dispelled all such weighty reflections, and that word was "Chikor!" In and out among the grass and stones the birds were running--_running_. The more they were shouted at the more they ran. At last several of them rose. It was a long shot, but down came one. This was repeated again and again. All the shots were long shots, and there were as many misses as birds. There were plenty of birds, but they persistently forebore to rise. "Now you see why I'm not keen on chikor shooting, old chap," said Upward, as after a couple of hours this sport was voted hardly worth while. And subsequently Bhallu Khan expressed the opinion to his master that the strange sahib did not seem much of a shikari. He might have made quite a heavy bag--there were the birds, right under his feet, but he would not shoot--he would wait for them to rise--and they invariably rose much too far off to fire at with any chance of bringing them down. CHAPTER FOUR. INCIDENTAL. "I'm afraid, Nesta, my child, that your soldier friends will have to alight somewhere else if they want any chikor," pronounced Campian, subsiding upon a boulder to light his pipe. "We've railroaded them around this valley to such purpose that you can't get within a couple of hundred yards. When are they due, by the way--the sodgers, not the chikor?" "To-day, I think. They have been threatening for the last fortnight." "Threatening! Ingrate! Only think what a blessing their arrival will shed. You will hear all the latest `gup' from Shalalai, and have a couple of devoted poodles, all eagerness to frisk, and fetch and carry-- wagging their tails for approving pats, and all that sort of thing. And you must be tired of this very quiet life, unrelieved save by a couple of old fogies like yours truly and Upward?" "Ah, I'm tired of the `gup' of Shalalai. I'm not sure I'm not quite tired of soldiers." "That begins to look brisk for me, my dear girl, I being--bar Upward-- nearly the only civilian in Baluchistan. The only flaw in this to me alluring vista now opened out is--how long will it last? First of all, sit down. There's no fun in standing unnecessarily." She sat down on the boulder beside him, and began to play with the smoothness of the barrels of the gun, which leaned against the rock between them. It was early morning. These two had strolled _off_ down the valley together directly after _chota hazri_--as they had taken to doing of late. A couple of brace of chikor lay on the ground at their feet, the smallness of the "bag" bearing out the accuracy of Campian's prognostication as to the decadence of that form of sport. The sun, newly risen, was flooding the valley with a rush of golden ether; reddening the towering crags, touching, with a silver wand, the carpet of dewdrops in the valley bottom, and mist-hung spider webs which spanned the juniper boughs--while from many a slab-like cliff came the crowing of chikor, pretty, defiant in the safety of altitude--rejoicing in the newly-risen dawn. Some fifty yards off, Bhallu Khan, having spread his chuddah on the ground, and put the shoes from off his feet--was devoutly performing the prescribed prostrations in the direction of the Holy City, repeating the while the aspirations and ascriptions wherewith the Faithful--good, bad and indifferent--are careful to hallow the opening of another day. "You were asserting yourself tired of the garrison," went on Campian. "Yes? And wherefore this--caprice, since but the other day you were sworn to the sabre?" "Was I? Well perhaps I've changed my mind. I may do that, you know. But I don't like any of those at Shalalai. And--the nice ones are all married." This escaped her so spontaneously, so genuinely, that Campian burst out laughing. "Oh that's the grievance, is it?" he said. "And what about the others who are--not nice?" "Oh, I just fool them. Some of them think they're fooling me. I let it go far enough, and then they suddenly find out I've been fooling them. It's rather a joke." "Ever taken anyone seriously?" "That's telling." "All right, then. Don't tell." She looked up at him quickly. Her eyes seemed to be trying to read his face, which, beyond a slightly amused elevation of one eyebrow, was absolutely expressionless. "Well, I have then," she said, with a half laugh. "So? Tell us all about it, Nessita." She looked up quickly--"I say, that's rather a good name--I like it. It sounds pretty. No one ever called me that before." "Accept it from me, then." "Yes, I will. But, do you know--it's awful cheek of you to call me by my name at all. When did you first begin doing it, by the way?" "Don't know. I suppose it came so natural as not to mark an epoch. Couldn't locate the exact day or hour to save my life. Shall I return to `Miss Cheriton?'" "You never did say that. You never called me anything--until--" "Likely. It's a little way I have. I say--It's rather fun chikor shooting in the early morning. What?" "That means, I suppose, that you're tired of talking, and would like to go on." And she rose from her seat. "Not at all. Sit down again. That's right. For present purposes it means that you won't go out with me any more like this of a morning after those two Johnnies come." "You won't want me then. You can all go out together. I should only be in the way." "That remark would afford nine-tenths of the British Army the opportunity of retorting, `_You_ could never be that.' I, however, will be brutally singular. Very probably you would be in the way--" "Thanks." "_If_ we all went out together--I was going to say when you interrupted me." A touch on the arm interrupted _hint_. It came from Bhallu Khan, who, having concluded his devotions was standing at Campian's side, making vehement gesticulations of warning and silence. "Eh--what is it?" whispered Campian, looking eagerly in the direction pointed at by the other. The forester shook his head, and continued to gesticulate. Then he put both forefingers to his head, one on each side above the ears, pointing upwards. "Does he mean he has seen the devil?" said Campian wonderingly. "I guess he's trying to make us understand `horns.'" Nesta exploded in a peal of laughter, which, though melodious enough to human ears, must have had a terrifying effect on whatever had been designated by Bhallu Khan. He ceased to point eagerly through the scrub, but his new gesticulations meant unmistakably that the thing, whatever it might be, was gone. All the Hindustani they could muster between them--and that wasn't much--failed to make the old forester understand. He smiled talked-- then smiled again. Then they all laughed together--But that was all. Although actually on the scene of his midnight peril, Campian gave that experience no further thought. Nearly a fortnight had gone by since then, and no further alarm had occurred. Bhallu Khan had made inquiries and in the result had learned that the adjacent and then somewhat dreaded Marri tribe was innocent of the playful little event which had so nearly terminated Campian's allotted span of joys and sorrows. The assailants were Brahuis, of a notoriously marauding clan of that tribe, located in the Khelat district. What they were doing here, so far away from their own part of the country, however, he had not learned, or, if he had, for reasons of his own he kept it to himself. This intelligence lifted what shadow of misgiving might have lingered in the minds of Upward and his wife, as showing that the incident was a mere chance affair, and no indication of restlessness or hostility on the part of the tribesmen in their own immediate neighbourhood. Another fact gleaned by Bhallu Khan was that the man who had fallen to Campian's shot was not killed--nor even fatally wounded. This relieved all their minds, especially that of the shooter. It saved all sorts of potential trouble in the way of investigation and so forth--likewise it dispelled sundry unpleasant visions of a blood feud, which now and then would obtrude in spite of all efforts at reasoning them away; for these fierce fanatical mountaineers were hardly the men to suffer bloodshed to pass unavenged. However, no one was much hurt, and the marauders had taken themselves off to their own side of the country. Thus for about ten days had life in Upward's camp held on its way just as though no narrow escape of grim tragedy had thrown the visitor into its midst. Its inmates rejoiced in the open air life, and, save at night or for an afternoon siesta, were seldom indoors. The male section thereof, notwithstanding plentiful denunciation of the wily chikor and its ways, devoted much time to the pursuit of that exasperating biped, and all would frequently join hands in exploring the surrounding country--tiffin accompanying--to be laid out picnic fashion at some picturesque spot, whether of breezy height or in the cool shade of a _tangi_. Thus did Upward perform his forest inspections, combining business with pleasure--and everybody was content. And this statement we make of set purpose. No more aspirations after a return to Shalalai were now in the air. The infusion of a new element into the daily life of the camp seemed to make a difference. Campian and the two younger girls were friends of old. He did not mind their natural cheekiness--he had a great liking for them, and it only amused him; moreover, it kept things lively. And Nesta Cheriton--sworn worshipper of the sabre, speedily came to the conclusion that all that was entertaining and companionable was not a monopoly vested in the wearers of Her Majesty's uniform. For between her and the new arrival a very good understanding had been set up--a very good understanding indeed. But he, in the maturity of years and experience, made light of what might have set another man thinking. They were thrown together these two--and camp life is apt to throw people very much together--He was the only available male, wherefore she made much of him. Given, however, the appearance of two or three lively subalterns on the scene, and he thought he knew how the land would lie. But the consciousness in no wise disquieted him; on the contrary it afforded him a little good-humouredly cynical amusement. He knew human nature, as peculiar to either sex no less than as common to both, and he had reached a point in life when the preferences of the ornamental sex, for any permanent purpose, mattered nothing. But the study of it as a mere subject of dissection did afford him a very great amount of entertainment. Mature cynic as he was, yet now, looking down at the girl at his side as they took their way back through the wild picturesque valley bottom, the dew shining like silver in the fast ascending sun, a moist woodland odour arising from beneath the juniper trees, he could not but admit to himself that her presence here made a difference--a very great difference. She was wondrously pretty, in the fair, golden-haired style; had pretty ways too--soft, confiding--and a trick of looking up at one that was a trifle dangerous. Only that he felt rather sure it was all part of her way with the male sex in general, and not turned on for his benefit in particular, he might have wondered. "Well?" she said, looking up suddenly, "what is it all about?" "You. I was thinking a great deal about you. Now you are going to say I had much better have been talking to you." "No. But tell me what you were thinking." "I was thinking how deftly you got away from that question of mine-- about the one occasion when you _did_ take someone seriously. Now tell us all about it." "Ah--I'm not going to tell you." "Not, eh?" "No--no--no! Perhaps some day." "Well you'll have to look sharp, for I'm off in a day or two." "No? you're not!" she cried, in a tone very like that of real consternation. "Ah, you're just trying to crowd it on. Why, you're here for quite a long time." "Very well. You'll see. Only, don't say I never told you." "But you mustn't go. You needn't. Look here--You're not to." "That sounds rather nice--Very nice indeed. And wherefore am I not to go, Nessita, mine angel?" "Because I don't want you to. You're rather a joke, you know, and--" "--And--what?" "Nothing." "That ought to settle it. Only I don't flatter myself my departure will leave any gap. Remaineth there not a large garrison at Shalalai--horse, foot, and artillery?" "Oh, hang the garrison at Shalalai! You're detestable. I don't like you any more." "No? Well what will make you like me any more?" "If you stay." "That settles it. I cannot depart in the face of that condition," he answered, the gravity of his words and tone simply belied by a whimsical twinkle of the eyes. She, looking up, saw this. "Ah, I believe you've been cramming all the time. I'll ask Mr Upward when we get in, and if you have, I'll never forgive you." "Spare thyself the trouble O petulant one, for it would be futile in any case. If I have been telling nasty horrid wicked little taradiddles, Upward won't give me away, for I shall tip him the masonic wink not to. _You_ won't spot it, though you are staring us both in the face all the time. So you'll have to keep your blind faith in me, anyhow. Hallo! Stay still a minute. There are some birds." In and out among the grass and stones, running like barn-door fowl was a large covey. This time a whoop and a handful of gravel from Bhallu Khan was effective. The covey rose with a jarring "whirr" as one bird. A double shot--a bird fell to each. "Right and left. That's satisfactory. I'm getting my hand in," remarked Campian. "They're right away," looking after the covey, "and I feel like breakfast time. Glad we are almost back." The white tents half-hidden in the apricot tope, and sheltered by the fresh and budding green, looked picturesque enough against a background of rugged and stony mountain ridge, the black vertical jaws of the _tangi_, now waterless, yawning grim like the jaws of some silent waiting monster. Native servants in their snowy puggarees, flitted to and fro between the camp and the cook-tent, whence a wreath of blue smoke floated skyward. A string of camels had just come in, and were kneeling to have their loads removed, keeping up the while their hoarse snarling roar, each hideous antediluvian head turning craftily on its weird neck as though watching the chance of getting in a bite. But between them and their owners, three or four wild looking Baluchis-- long-haired and turban-crowned--the understanding, whether of love or fear, seemed complete, for these went about their work of unloading, the normal expression of impassive melancholy stamped upon their copper-hued countenances undergoing no change. "Well, how many did you shoot?" cried Hazel, running out from the tents as the two came in. "Only six!" as Bhallu Khan held up the "bag." "Pho! Why we heard about twenty shots. Didn't we, Lily?" "More. I expect they were thinking of you when they named this place," said the latter. "Thought something cheeky was coming," remarked Campian tranquilly. "The `cow-catcher' adorning thy most speaking countenance, Lilian my cherub, has an extra upward tendency this morning. No pun intended, of course." "Oh--oh--oh!" A very hoot was all the expression that greeted this disclaimer. But a sudden summons to breakfast cut short further sparring. "Upward, what's the meaning of Chirria Bach?" asked Campian when they were seated. Lily and Hazel clapped their hands and cackled. Upward looked up, with a laugh. "It means `miss a bird' old chap. Didn't you know?" "No. I never thought of it. Very good, Lilian my seraph. Now I see the point of that extra smart remark just now. What do you think, Mrs Upward? she said this place must have been named after me." "They're very rude children, both of them," was the laughing reply. "But I can't sympathise. I'm afraid you make them worse." A wild crow went up from the two delinquents. Campian shook his head gravely. "After that we had better change the subject," he said. "By the way, Upward, old Bhallu Khan went through an extraordinary performance this morning. I want you to tell me the interpretation thereof." "Was he saying his prayers? Have another chikor, old chap?" "No--not his prayers. Thanks, I will. They eat rather better than they shoot. Nesta and I were deep in the discussion of scientific and other matters--" "Oh, yes." This from Lily, meaningly. "Lilian, dearest. If you can tell the story better than I can"--with grave reproach. "Never mind--go on--go on"--rapped out the delinquent. "--In the discussion of scientific and other matters," resumed Campian, eyeing his former interruptor, "when Bhallu Khan suddenly enjoined silence. He then put his fingers to his head--so--and mysteriously pointed towards the nullah. It dawned on me that he meant something with horns; but I knew there couldn't be _gadh_ or markhor right down here in the valley, and close to the camp. Then Nesta came to the rescue by suggesting that he must have seen the devil." "Ah, I didn't suggest it!" cried Nesta. But her disclaimer was drowned in a wild yelp of ecstasy that volleyed forth from the two younger girls; in the course of which Hazel managed to swallow her tea the wrong way, and spent the next ten minutes choking and spluttering. Upward was shaking in quiet mirth. "He didn't mean the devil at all, old chap, only a hare," he explained. "A hare?" uttered Campian. The blankness of his amazement started the two off again. "Only a hare! Good heavens! But a hare, even in Baluchistan, hasn't got horns." "He meant its ears. Come now, it was rather smart of him--wasn't it? Old Bhallu Khan is smart all round. He _buks_ a heap, and is an old bore at times, but he's smart enough." "Yes. It was smart. Yet the combined intelligence of Nesta and myself couldn't get beyond the devil." "Speak for yourself then," she laughed. And just then Tinkles, rushing from under the table, darted forth outside, uttering a succession of fierce and fiery barks. "I expect it's those two Johnnies arriving," said Upward, rising. "Yes, it is," as he lifted the "chick" and looked outside. They all went forth. Two horsemen were turning off the road and making for the camp. CHAPTER FIVE. CONCERNING TWO FOOLS. "Major Bracebrydge--Captain Fleming"--introduced Upward. The first lifted his hat punctiliously to Campian, the second put out his hand. To the rest of the party both were already known. "Well--ar--Upward--lots of chikor, eh?" began the first. "Swarms. But they've become beastly wild. Campian has been harrying them ever since we found him one dark night half in half out of the nullah in flood." "Oh, yes; we heard something of that I suppose--ar--Mr Campian--it wasn't one magnified by half-a-dozen--ah, ha--ha. You were travelling after dinner, you know--ah--ha--ha?" A certain amount of chaff in fair good fellowship Campian didn't mind. But the element of _bonhomie_ was lacking alike in the other's tone and demeanour. The laugh too, was both fat and feeble. He did not deem this specimen of garrison wit worthy of any answer. The other seemed disappointed. "I see our camels have turned up," he went on. "By Jove, Upward, I've got a useless lot of servants. That new bearer of mine wants kicking many times a day. Look at him now--over there. Just look at the brute--squatting on his haunches when he ought to be getting things together. I say though, you've got all the best of it here"--surveying the apricot _tope_, which was incapable of sheltering even one more tent--"we shall get all the sun." "Sorry they didn't plant more trees, old chap," said Upward. "But then we are here for a longish time, whereas it's only a few days with you. Come in and have a `peg.' Fleming--how about a `peg'?" "Oh, very much about a `peg,'" responded Fleming with alacrity. He had been renewing his acquaintance with Nesta about as volubly as time allowed. "Well, what _khubbur_ from below?" asked Upward, when they were seated in the large dining tent, discussing the said "pegs." "Oh, the usual thing," said Bracebrydge. "Tribes restless Khelat way-- that's nothing--they always are restless." "Ever since you've been in the country, old chap?" rejoined Upward, with a dry smile, the point of which lay in the fact that the man who undertook to give an exhaustive and authoritative opinion on the country was absolutely new to it. He was not quartered at Shalalai, nor anywhere else in Baluchistan; but was up, on furlough, from a hot station in the lower plains. "There is some talk of disturbance, though," said Fleming. "Two or three of the Brahui sirdars sent a message to the A.G.G., which was offhand, not to say cheeky. Let them. We'll soon smash 'em up." "You may do," said Upward. "But there'll be lively times first. Then there's all that disaffection in lower India. Things are looking dicky--devilish dicky. I shouldn't wonder if we saw something before long. I've always said so." Then they got away from the general question to _gup_ of a more private nature--even station _gup_. "When are you coming back to Shalalai, Miss Cheriton?" said Fleming, in the midst of this. "I don't know. I've only just left it," Nesta answered. "Not for a long time, I think." "That's awful hard lines on Shalalai, Miss Cheriton--ah--ha--ha," said Bracebrydge, twirling the ends of his moustache, which, waxed out on a level with the line of his mouth, gave him a sort of barber's block expression, which however, the fair of the above city, and of elsewhere, deemed martial and dashing to a degree. This effect, in their sight, was heightened by a jagged scar extending from the left eye to the lower jaw, suggestive of a sword slash at close quarters, "facing the foe"-- and so forth. As a matter of hard fact this honourable wound had been received while heading a storming party upon the quarters of a newly-joined and rather high tempered subaltern, for "hazing" purposes. The latter, anticipating such attentions had locked his door, and on the arrival of the "hazing" party, had given out that the first man to enter the room was going to receive something he wouldn't like in the least. The door was burst open, and with characteristic gallantry the first man to enter was Bracebrydge, who found the destined victim to be as good as his word, for he received a heavy article of crockery, deftly hurled, full in the face--and he didn't like it in the least--for it cut him so badly right along the cheek that he had to retire perforce, bleeding hideously. The next day the newly-joined subaltern sent in his papers, saying he had no wish to belong to a service wherein it was necessary to take such measures to defend oneself against the overgrown schoolboy rowdyism of "brother" officers, and subsequently won distinction and the V.C. as a daring and gallant leader of irregular horse in other parts of Her Majesty's dominions. "I suppose you fellows will want to give the birds a turn," said Upward, after tiffin. "We'll get the ponies and start shooting from about four miles down the valley. I'm afraid they're beastly wild until we get that far." "Don't know that I feel up to it," said Fleming. "Beastly fag the ride up this morning. Think I'll just take it easy here in camp, Upward. You and Bracebrydge can go. It'll be all the better for yourselves; three guns are sure to have more sport than four." Campian, who was in the joke, caught a sly wink from Upward, and mightily enjoyed it. Here was the latter's prediction being already fulfilled. "What sort of fellow are you, Fleming?" said Bracebrydge. "What's the good of coming up here on purpose to shoot, and then hanging up in camp? Now I had thought of not going out. The fact is, I want to fetch a snooze." "Oh you don't want a snooze. You snored for ten hours at a stretch the way up last night," retorted Fleming. "Now I didn't, and feel cheap in consequence. You go along now, or you'll spoil the party. Upward and Mr Campian are both keen on it." "Rather. One of you fellows must come," declared Upward, bent on keeping up the fun. "We might spare one of you, but not both. Three guns we must have, to cover the ground properly." "Then Fleming had better go," said Bracebrydge. "I'm sleepy." "No fear, I'm going to remain in camp," declared Fleming. "I'm sleepy, too." "Why don't you toss for it?" suggested Upward. "Sudden death--the winner to do as he likes." The idea took on, and Fleming came out the winner. "All right, Bracebrydge," said the latter, jubilant. "I'll have my snooze while you sacrifice yourself in the cause of others--and sport." The latter snarled, but even he drew the line at backing out of his pledge. Meanwhile Campian, no longer able to restrain a roar, had hurried from the dining tent. "What's the joke, now?" called out Nesta, who, with Mrs Upward, was seated beneath the trees. "Yes, it _is_ a joke." "Well, we're spoiling to hear it; go on." "Ssh--ssh! little girls shouldn't be impatient. The joke is this--Wait. They're coming," with a look over his shoulder. "No. They're not. Quick quick. What is it?" "Well, the spectacle of two fellows old enough to know better, who have come all the way up here on purpose to shoot, both keenly competing as to who shall have the privilege of remaining in camp, is comical--to say the least of it." "Ah, I don't believe it--" said Nesta. "Not, eh? Well they have even gone so far as to toss for the privilege." "And who won?" "Him they call Fleming. Where are you going to take him for his afternoon stroll, Nessita? I warn you _we_ are going _down_ the valley." "Then _we_ will go up it," laughed the girl. "Yes, I think he is the best fun of the two." "A pair of great sillies, both of them," laughed Mrs Upward. "Steady. Here comes Fleming. But you won't see much of him. He is only remaining behind with the express object of having an afternoon snooze. Ta-ta--I'm off." Fleming, who was at that moment emerging from the dining tent came over to the two ladies, and throwing himself on the ground, lighted another cheroot and began to talk. He was still talking animatedly when the shooters started. "I say, Fleming, when are you going to have your snooze?" called out Bracebrydge nastily. "You don't look so sleepy now as you did--Ar--ha-- ha!" The shooters proceeded on the plan laid down, except that Bracebrydge suggested they should leave the ponies much sooner than was at first intended. Then, being in a villainous temper, he shot badly, and wondered what the devil they had come to such an infernally rotten bit of shooting for, and cursed the attendant forest guard, and made a studiously offensive remark or two to Campian, who received the same with the silence of utter contempt. Before they had been at it an hour, he flung down his gun and burst out with: "Look here Upward, I can't shoot a damn to-day, and my boot is chafing most infernally. I shall be lame for a month if I walk any more. Couldn't one of these fellows fetch my pony? I'll go back to camp." "All right, old chap; do just as you like," replied Upward, giving the necessary orders. "Why not get on the gee, and ride on with us"--suggested Campian, innocently. "The scenery is rather good further down." "Oh, damn the scenery! Look here though. I don't want to spoil you two fellows' shoot. You go on. Don't wait for me. The nigger will be here with the horse directly." "No. There's no point in waiting," assented Upward. "We'll go on eh, Campian? So long, Bracebrydge." The two resumed their shoot, cutting down a bird here and a bird there, and soon came together again. "That's a real show specimen, that man Bracebrydge," remarked Campian. "What made you freeze on to him, Upward?" "Oh, I met him in the Shalalai club. I never took to the man, but he was in with some others I rather liked. It was Fleming who brought him up here." "So? But, do you know, it's a sorrowful spectacle to see a man of his age--already growing grey--making such an egregious ass of himself. Mind you, I'm not surprised at him being a little `gone'--she's a very taking little girl--but to give himself away as he does, that's where the lunacy of the affair comes in." Upward chuckled. "Bless your life, old chap, Bracebrydge isn't really `gone' there." "Not, eh? Then he's a bigger idiot than even I took him for, letting himself go like that." "It's his way. He does just the same with every woman he comes across, if she's at all decent-looking, and what's more is under the impression she must be wildly `gone' on him; and by the way, some of them have been. Wait till we get back to Shalalai; you may see some fun in that line." "They must be greater fools even than himself. I'm not a woman-hater, but really the sex can roll out some stupendous examples of defective intelligence--but then, to be fair, so can our own--as for instance Bracebrydge himself. What sort of place is this, Upward?" he broke off, as they came upon a low tumble-down wall surrounding a tree; the enclosure thus formed was strewn with loose horns, as of sheep and goats, and yet not quite like them. "Why, it's a sort of rustic shrine, rigged up to some Mohammedan saint. Isn't it, Bhallu Khan?" translating the remark. The forester reached over the wall, and picking up a markhor horn, worn and weather-beaten, held it towards them. "He says it's where the people come to make offerings," translated Upward. "When they want to have a successful stalk they vow a pair of markhor horns at a place like this." "And then deposit it here, and then the noble Briton, if in want of such a thing to hang in his hall, incontinently bones it, and goes home and lies about it ever after," cut in Campian. "Isn't that how the case stands?" "I don't think so. The horns wouldn't be good enough to make it worth while." "I suppose not," examining the one tendered him by the forester. "I didn't know the cultus of Saint Hubert obtained among Mohammedans. Do these people have legends and local ghosts, and all that kind of thing?" "Rather. You just set old Bhallu Khan yarning--pity you can't understand him though. Look. See that very tree over there?" pointing out a large juniper. "He has a yarn about a fakir who used to jump right over the top of it every day for a year." "So? What did he do that for? As a pious exercise?" "Something of the kind. But the joke of it is, the thing happened a devil of a time ago. When I pointed out to him that any fool could have done the same, considering that the tree needn't have been more than a yard high, even then he hardly sees it." "I should doubt that, Upward. My opinion is that our friend Bhallu Khan was endeavouring to pull his superior's leg when he told that story." "They are very stupid in some ways, though sharp as the devil in others. And the odd part of it is that most of their local sacred yarns are of the most absurd kind--well, like the tree and fakir story." "They are rather a poor lot these Baluchis, aren't they? They don't go in for a lot of jewels, on their clothes and swords, like the Indian rajahs?" "No. Some of the Afghan sirdars do, though--or at any rate used to." "So? And what became of them all?" "They have them still--though wait--let me see. There are yarns that some are hidden away, so as not to fall into the hands of other tribes as loot. There was a fellow named Keogh in our service who made a good haul that way. A Pathan brought him an old battered sword belt, encrusted with rough looking stones, which he had dug up, and wanted ten rupees for it Keogh beat him down to five, and brought the thing as a curio. How much do you think he sold it for?" "Well?" "Four thousand. The stones were sapphires." "Where was this?" asked Campian quickly. "Anywhere near here?" "No. Out the other side of Peshawur. You seem keen on the subject, old chap! You haven't got hold of a notion there's anything to be done in that line around here, eh?" "Hardly. This sort of country doesn't grow precious stones, I guess, except precious big ones." "Where's Bracebrydge?" queried Upward, on their return to camp two hours later. "He isn't back yet," replied Nesta, with a very mischievous laugh. "What? Why, he left us more than a couple of hours ago. What can have become of the chap? He ought to have been back long before us." "He was back, but he started off again," said Mrs Upward. "This time he went the other way"--whereat both Nesta and Fleming laughed immoderately. "I think he started to hunt us up, didn't he, Mrs Upward?" spluttered the latter. "Oh, I don't know. But--I believe you saw him and gave him the go-by"-- whereat the inculpated pair exchanged glances, and spluttered anew. "I see," said Upward, amusing himself by beginning to tease Tinkles-- whose growls and snaps afforded him considerable mirth. "How's his chafed foot now--Oh-h!" The last as the little terrier, getting in a bite, half play, half earnest, nipped him through his trousers. "He didn't say anything about his chafed foot. Why, here he comes." A very sulky looking horseman rode up and dismounted. Upon him Fleming turned a fire of sly chaff; which had the effect of rendering Bracebrydge sulkier than ever, and Bracebrydge sulky was not a pleasant fellow by any means. He retorted accordingly. "Never mind, old chap," cut in Upward. "It's all right now, and nearly dinner time. Let's all have a `peg.' Nothing like a `peg' to give one an appetite." CHAPTER SIX. OF THE RUBY SWORD. Not without reasons of his own had Campian made such careful and minute inquiries as to the traditions and legends of the strange, wild country in which his lot was temporarily cast, and the key to those reasons was supplied in a closely-written sheet of paper which he was intently studying on the morning after the above conversation. It was, in fact, a letter. Not for the first or second time was he studying this. It had reached him just after his arrival in the country, and the writer thereof was his father. The latter had been a great traveller in his younger days, and was brimful of Eastern experience; full too, of reminiscence, looking back to perilous years passed among fierce, fanatical races, every day of which represented just so many hours of carrying his life in his hand. Now he was spending the evening of life in peace and quiet. This was the passage which Campian was now studying: "It came to me quite as a surprise to hear you were in Afghanistan; had I known you thought of going, there are a few things we might have talked over together. I don't suppose the country is much changed. Oriental countries never do change, any more than their people. "You remember that affair we have often talked about, when I saved the life of the Durani emir, Dost Hussain, and the story of the hiding of the ruby sword. It--together with the remainder of the treasure--was buried in a cave in a long narrow valley called Kachin, running almost due east and west. The mountain on the north side is pierced by a very remarkable _tangi_, the walls of which, could they be closed, would fit like the teeth of a steel trap. I never saw the place myself, but Dost Hussain often used to tell me about it when he promised me half of the buried valuables. I was not particular to go into the subject with him in those days, for I had a strong repugnance to the idea of being paid for saving a man's life; indeed I used to tell him repeatedly I did not need so costly a gift. But he would not hear of my objections, declaring that when he was able to return for his property half of it should be mine, and I fully believe he would have kept his word, for he was a splendid fellow--more like an Arab that an Asiatic. But Dost Hussain was killed by the Brahuis, and, so far as I was concerned, the secret of the hidden valuables died with him. The only man I know of who shared it was his brother, the Syyed Ain Asraf, but he is probably dead, or, at any rate must have recovered it long ago. The sword alone would have been of immense value. I saw it once. Both hilt and scabbard were encrusted with splendid rubies and other stones, but mostly rubies--and there were other valuables. "It occurs to me that all this must have been hidden somewhere about where you are now, and, if so, you might make a few inquiries. I would like to know whether the sword was ever found or not. Find out if Ain Asraf is still alive. If so, he must be very old now. It would be interesting to me to hear how that affair ended, and would give an additional object to your travels..." Then the letter went on to touch upon other matters, and concluded. As we have said, it was not the first time Campian had pondered over these words, but every time he did so something in them seemed to strike him in a fresh light. Well he remembered hearing his father tell the story by word of mouth, but at such time it had interested him _as_ a story and no more. Now, however, that he was in the very scene of its enactment, it seemed to gain tenfold interest. What if this buried treasure had never been recovered, had lain hidden all these years. The affair dated back to the forties. Afghanistan his father had called it--but this was Afghanistan then. In those days it owned allegiance to the Amir of Kabul. A long, narrow valley running almost due east and west! There were many such valleys. And the _tangi_? Why the very _tangi_ at whose mouth their camp was pitched was the only one cleaving the mountain range on the northern side, and its configuration was exactly that of the one described in his father's letter. He could not resist a thrill of the pulses. What if this splendid treasure were in reality right under his hand--if he only knew where to lay his hand upon it? There came the rub. The mountain sides here and there were simply honeycombed with caves. To strike the right one without some clue would be a forlorn quest indeed; and he could talk neither Baluch nor Hindustani. The very wildness of the possibility availed to quell any rising excitement to which he might have felt inclined upon the subject; besides, was it likely that this treasure--probably of double value, both on account of its own worth, and constituting a sort of heirloom--would have been allowed to lie buried for forty years or so, and eventually have been forgotten? Somebody or other must have known its hiding place. No; any possibility to the contrary must be simply chimerical. Just then the "chik" was lifted, and Upward's head appeared within the tent. "Can I come in, old chap? Look here, we are all going on a little expedition, so you roll out and come along. There's a bit of new enclosed forest I want to look at and report on, so we are going to make a picnic of it. There's a high _kotal_ between cliffs, which gives one a splendid view; then we can go down into the valley, and home again round another way, through a fine _tangi_ which is well worth seeing." "I'm right on, Upward. I'll roll out. Do you mind sending Khola in with the bath?" "That's it. We are going to have breakfast a little earlier, and start immediately afterwards. Will that suit you?" "To a hair!" The start was duly made, and Lily and Hazel found immense fun in watching the efforts of the two knights of the sabre to secure the privilege of riding beside Nesta, with the result that, as neither would give way, the path, when it began to narrow, became inconveniently crowded. The girl was looking very pretty in a light blouse and habit skirt; her blue eyes dancing with mischievous mirth over the recollection of the wild rush they had made to assist her to mount; and how she, having accorded that privilege to Fleming, the other had promptly taken advantage of it by manoeuvring his steed to the side of hers, thus, for the time being, effectually "riding out" the much disgusted Fleming. "What's the real name of this place, Upward?" said Campian, when they were fairly under way. "Chirria Bach," said Lily. "We told you before. It was named after you." "Not of thee did I humbly crave information, mine angelic Lil. I record the fact more in sorrow than in anger," he answered. "It's called that on the Government maps," said Upward. "I think it has another name--Kachin, I believe they call it--don't they, Bhallu Khan?" "_Ha, Huzoor_, Kachin," assented the forester, who was riding just behind. "Is it the whole district, or only just this valley?" went on Campian. "Only just this valley," translated Upward, who had put the question to the old Pathan. "Strange now--that I should be here, isn't it? I've heard my father speak of this place. You know he was out here a lot--years ago--I suppose there isn't another of the same name, is there?" "He says, nowhere near this part of the country," said Upward, rendering Bhallu Khan's reply. "But what made your father mention this place in particular? Was he in any row here?" "Perhaps he `missed birds' here, too," cut in the irrepressible Lily. "I know. It was named after him--not you." "That's it. Of course it was. Now, I never thought of that before," assented Campian, with a stare of mock amazement. "I believe, however, Upward, that as a matter of fact, he remembered the rather remarkable formation of that _tangi_ behind the camp." Then he dropped out of the conversation, and thought over what he had just heard. Truly this thing was becoming interesting. He had located the very place. There could be no mistake about that. He had been on the point of asking if Bhallu Khan had heard the story of the flight of the Durani chief, or of Syyed Ain Asraf, but decided to let that alone for the present. "Who is that bounder, Campian?" Bracebrydge was saying. "Does anyone know?" "He isn't a `bounder,'" returned Nesta shortly. "He's awfully nice." "Oh, awfully nice--ah--ha--ha--ha!" sneered Bracebrydge, with his vacuous laugh. "Very sorry. Didn't know he was such a friend of yours." "But he is." "Pity he goes about looking such a slouch then, isn't it?" "It would be--if he did. But then everybody doesn't see the sense of knocking about among rocks and stones got up as if he was just turned out of a band box, Major Bracebrydge," she returned, quite angrily. "Oh. Sorry I spoke--ah--ha--ha!" he retorted, recognising a shaft levelled at his own immaculate turnout. Fleming came to the rescue. "Don't know what's wrong with this fellow, Miss Cheriton. He's been so crusty the last day or two. He ought to be invalided. Bracebrydge, old man, buck up." A couple of hours of easy riding, and the whole party gained the _kotal_, to which we heard Upward make reference, and his eulogy of the view afforded therefrom was in no sense undeserved. Right in front the ground fell abruptly, well nigh precipitously, to a great depth; and in the valley, or basin beneath, here and there a plot of flat land under cultivation stood out green among the rolling furrows of grey rock and sombre vegetation. Opposite rose a mighty mass of mountain, piled up tier upon tier of great cliffs, and beyond this, far away to the left, a lofty range dark with juniper, swept round to meet the heights which shut in the amphitheatre from that side. Down into this the bridle path over the _kotal_ wound, looking like a mere crack in a wall. A great crag towered right overhead, its jutting pinnacles and ledges standing defiantly forth against the sky. "Not a bad spot for a picnic, is it?" said Upward complacently, as, having dismounted, they stood taking in the view. "By Jove, no," said Fleming. "Phew! what an idea of depth it conveys, looking right down into that hole. Look Miss Cheriton. There are some people moving down there. They seem about as big as flies." "How big are flies? I always thought flies were small?" cut in Lily, the irrepressible. "Not always. Depends upon the fly," murmured Campian. "Well, I shall have to leave you people for a while," said Upward. "There's a new plantation up the hill I want to look at. Sha'n't be more than an hour, and we can have tiffin then. It's quite early yet." "I'll go with you, Upward," said Campian. And the two started, attended by Bhallu Khan, mounted on his wiry Baluch pony. "I'm getting deadly sick of that fellow Bracebrydge," began Upward. "I wish to heaven he'd clear. He always wants to boss the whole show as if it belonged to him. Did you hear him trying to dictate where we were to pitch the tiffin camp?" "Yes." "He always does that sort of thing, or tries to be funny at somebody else's expense. I'm getting jolly sick of it." He was still more sick of it, when, on returning, he found that Bracebrydge had carried his point, and actually had caused a removal of the said site. However, Upward was of an easy going disposition, though addicted to occasional fidgety fits, so he came to the conclusion that it couldn't be helped now, and didn't really matter after all, and the tiffin was plenteous and good, and the soda water well cooled. So they fed, and chatted, and had a good time generally. "I say, Upward. Can't someone throw a few bottles at that brute?" remarked Bracebrydge, as, cheroots having been lit, the male element stretched at full length on the ground, was lazily puffing at the same. "He'll crack the drum of one's blessed ears directly, the howling lunatic." The noise complained of was a soft, melancholy, wailing sound, something between a flute and a concertina, and it proceeded from one of the forest guard, who was tootling into some instrument of native make. "Does it _dik_ you, old chap?" replied Upward good naturedly. "I can shut him up, but we rather like it. Bulbul Khan swears he invented that instrument himself, and is immensely proud of it. We look upon him as our Court minstrel of sorts. He's always tuning up when we go out anywhere. Never without his pipes." "What did you say the _soor's_ name was?" growled Bracebrydge. "Bulbul Khan. That's my name for him," laughed Upward. "His real name's Babul Han, but I christened him Bulbul Khan, because he's always making melody. Not bad, eh?" "Oh yes--beastly funny--Ah--ha--ha--ha!" sneered Bracebrydge. Now the trampling of horse hoofs arrested the attention of the party, and about a dozen mounted Baluchis, riding at a foot's pace, emerged from the juniper forest. They made a picturesque group enough in their white flowing garments and great turbans. "Why, who can these be?" said Nesta, gazing upon the new arrivals with some interest. "Who are they, Mrs Upward?" "I'll ask Bhallu Khan." Then--"He says it is a sirdar of the Marris, who has been up to Gushki to see the Political Agent, and is on his way home." "So?" said Campian, interested. "Wonder if he'd stop and have a talk. Upward, roll up, old man. I want you to interview this very big swell." "We don't want to be `dikked' by a lot of niggers," grunted Bracebrydge, in an audible aside. The cavalcade had halted some threescore yards away, and one of the men now came forward to ask if the "jungle-wallah sahib" was there, because the Sirdar Yar Hussain Khan would be glad to have a talk with him on an official matter. "Yar Hussain Khan?" repeated Upward, choking back a yawn. "I say, Campian, you'd better take a good look at this fellow. He's no end of a big chief among the Marris, though he's really of Afghan descent. Come along with me and meet him." Then, turning to the Baluchi, he gave the necessary answer. All the party were armed with the inevitable tulwar--four of their number, who were in immediate attendance on the chief, with Martini rifles as well. These, however, they laid down, as, having dismounted, they advanced to meet Upward. The sirdar himself was a man of stately presence, standing over six feet. His strong, handsome face, with its flowing black beard, was well set off by the great turban wound round a blue _kulla_, whose conical peak was just visible above the snowy folds. Two jetty tresses of long hair fell over his broad chest, almost to the hem of a rich vest of blue velvet embroidered with gold; the only colour which relieved his white garments. Campian, for his part, as he returned the other's handshake, and noted the free, full fearlessness of the glance which met his, decided that here indeed was a noble specimen of an Oriental chieftain. The subject of the latter's official talk with Upward was of no especial importance, relating merely to certain grazing rights in dispute between a section of his tribesmen and the Government. Then he accepted an invitation to sit down and smoke a cigarette. But with the remainder of the party he did not offer to shake hands, acknowledging their presence by a dignified salute. Upward, talking in Hindustani, brought round the conversation to matters semi-political. "Was there anything in the rumours that had got about, that the tribes were becoming restless all over the country?" "The tribes always had been restless," was Yar Hussain's reply. "The English had taken over the country not so very long ago. Was it likely that the people could change their nature all at once? The English sahibs found sport in stalking markhor or tiger shooting or in other forms of _shikar_. The Baluchis found it in raiding. It was their form of _shikar_." Campian, who perforce had to await Upward's interpretation, had been carefully observing their visitors, and noted that one among the chiefs attendants was gazing at him with a most malevolent stare. This man never took his glance off him, and when their eyes met that glance became truly fiendish. "That's a first-class explanation, and a candid one," was the comment he made on Upward's rendering. "Tell him I hope they won't take any more potshots at me when I'm wandering about alone--like they did that night I arrived at your camp, Upward. Tell him I rather like the look of them, and wish I could talk, so I could go in and out among them." A slight smile came over the dignified gravity of the sirdar's features as this was interpreted to him, and he replied. "He says," translated Upward, "he will be very pleased if at any time you should visit his village. The shooting at you he knows nothing about, but is sure it could not have been done by any of his people." Campian, looking up, again met the hostile glance above mentioned. The man, who was seated a little behind his chief, was regarding him with a truly fiendish scowl, and noting it he decided upon two things--that Yar Hussain was a very fine fellow indeed, but that if he had any more followers of the stamp of this malignant savage, it were better for himself or any other infidel who desired to live out his length of days to pause ere accepting this cordially worded invitation. Then, after a few more interchanges of civilities, the sirdar and his followers rose to take their leave. Now the diabolical scowl wherewith that particular Baluchi had greeted him, Campian at first set down to the natural hatred of a more than ordinarily fanatical Moslem for the infidel and the invader. But as the other drew nearer, spitting forth low envenomed curses, he half expected the Ghazi mania would prove too much for the man, even in the presence of his chief, and his hand instinctively moved behind him to his pistol pocket. The fellow however, seemed to think better of it. "Fine specimen, that sirdar, isn't he?" said Upward, as they watched the party defiling down the steep hill path into the valley beneath. "He is. By the way, did you notice the infernal scowl that hook-nosed brigand of his turned on for my benefit all the time you were talking?" "I thought he wasn't looking at you very amiably when they went away. He can see you're a stranger, I suppose, and some of these fanatical devils hate a stranger." "There was more in it than that, Upward. Did you happen to notice he walked with a slight limp?" "No; I hardly--er yes, by the way, now I think of it, I did." "Well, what if he should turn out to be the very identical cuss I winged that night?" "Phew!" whistled Upward. "But then, Bhallu Khan says they were Brahuis. These are Marris." "There may have been both among them. What is the sirdar's name, again?" "Yar Hussain Khan." "Yes. Well, Sirdar Yar Hussain Khan seems a very nice fellow, and I should much like to see him again; but probably I sha'n't, for the simple reason that I don't in the least want ever to behold that particularly abominable follower of his again." But he little thought under what circumstances he was destined to behold both again. CHAPTER SEVEN. THE TANGI. "It's a thundering mistake allowing these fellows to wander all over the country armed, like that," said Upward, commenting on their late visitors, while preparations were being made for a start. "They are never safe while they carry about those beastly tulwars. A fellow may take it into his head to cut you down at any moment. If he has nothing to do it with he can't; if he has he will. Government ought to put the Arms Act into force." "Then there'd be a row," suggested Campian. "Let there be. Anything rather than this constant simmering. Not a week passes but some poor devil gets stuck when he least expects it--in broad daylight, too--on a railway station platform, or in the bazaar, or anywhere. For my part, I never like to have any of these fellows walking close behind me." "No, I don't want either of you. I've had enough of you both for to-day. I'm going to ride with Mr Campian now. I want to talk to him a little." Thus Nesta Cheriton's clear voice, which of course carried far enough to be heard by the favoured one, as she intended it should. The pair of discomfited warriors twirled their moustaches with mortification, but their way of accepting the situation was characteristic, for while Fleming laughed good-humouredly, if a trifle ruefully, Bracebrydge's tone was nasty and sneering, as he replied: "Variety is charming, they say, Miss Cheriton. Good thing for some of us we are not all alike--ah--ha--ha!" "I quite agree with you there," tranquilly remarked Campian, at whom this profoundly original observation was levelled. Then he assisted Nesta to mount. The path down from the _kotal_ was steep and narrow, and the party was obliged to travel single file. Finally it widened out as they gained the more level valley bottom. Here were patches of cultivation, and scattered among the rocks and stones was a flock of black goats, herded by a wild looking native clad in a weather-beaten sheepskin mantle, and armed with a long _jezail_ with a sickle shaped stock. Two wolfish curs growled at the passers by, while their master uttered a sulky "salaam." A blue reek of smoke rose from in front of a misshapen black tent, consisting of little more than a hide stretched upon four poles, beneath whose shelter squatted a couple of frowsy, copper-faced women. Two or three more smoke wreaths rising at intervals from the mountain side, and the distant bark of a dog, betokened the vicinity of other wandering herdsmen. "I never seem to see anything of you now," said the girl suddenly, during a pause in the conversation, which up till then had been upon the subject of the surrounding and its influences. "Really? That sounds odd, for I have been under the impression that we are looking at each other during the greater portion of every day, and notably when we sit opposite each other at the not very wide, but pre-eminently festive board." "Don't be annoying. You know what I mean." "That we don't go out chikor shooting together any more. You may remember I foretold just such a possibility on the last occasion of our joint indulgence in that pastime." "Well but--why don't we?" "For exactly the reason I then foretold. You seem better employed. I amuse myself watching the fun instead." She looked at him quickly. Was he jealous? Nesta Cheriton was so accustomed to be spoiled and adored and competed for and quarrelled over by the stronger sex, that she could hardly realise any member of the same remaining indifferent to her charms. As a matter of fact, this one was not indifferent. He appreciated them. Her blue-eyed, golden-haired prettiness was pleasant to behold, in the close, daily intercourse of camp life. He liked to notice her pretty ways, and there was something rather alluring in her half affectionate and wholly confidential manner towards himself. But--jealous? Oh no--no. He had lived too long, and had too much experience of life for that phase of weakness. Nesta was disappointed. She read no symptoms of the same in his face, her ear detected no trace of bitterness or resentment in the tone. "But I want to go out with you sometimes," she said. "Why do you avoid me so of late?" "My dear child, you never made a greater mistake in your life than in thinking that. Here we are, you see, all crowded up together. We can't all be talking at once--and--I thought you rather enjoyed the fun of playing those two Johnnies off against each other." "Ah, I'm sick of them. I wish they'd go back to Shalalai." "I don't altogether believe that. Which is the favoured one, by the way?" "No, really. I rather like Captain Fleming, though." She laughed, branching off with the light-hearted inconsequence of her type. "And--I don't know what to do. He's awfully gone on me." "And are you `awfully gone' on him?" "Of course not. But I rather like him. I don't know what to do about it." "You don't know whether to buckle yourself for life to some one you `rather like'--or not. Is that the long and short of it?" "Yes." "If you are a little idiot, Nessie, you will do it--if you are not, you won't. You are dreadfully lacking in ballast, my child, even to dream of such a thing, are you not?" "I suppose so. I don't care a straw for anybody for more than a week or so. Then I am just as sick of them as I can be. That's how I am." "Except on that solitary occasion when you did take someone seriously. Tell me about that, Nessita." "No--no!" "But you promised to, one of these days. Why not now?" "What a tease you are. I won't tell it you now. No--nor ever. There!--Hark! Wasn't that thunder?" she broke off suddenly. "Yes. It's a long way off, though, travelling down yonder ridge. Won't come near us." Away along the summit of the further range a compact mass of cloud now rested, and from this came a low distant peal. It represented one of the thunderstorms common at that time of year, restricted in locality, and of limited area. They gave it no further thought, and the conversation running on from one subject to another, now grave, now gay, carried them a long way over the road. The rest of the party were far ahead. Bracebrydge was consoling himself by teasing Lily, and receiving from that young person, not unaided by Hazel, many a repartee fully up to the viciousness of his own thrusts. Fleming was riding with Mrs Upward, while Upward and Bhallu Khan were constantly diverging from the road, inspecting various botanical subjects with professional eye. Thus Nesta and Campian, whether by accident or design of the former, gradually dropped behind. Again, a long low boom of thunder pealed out upon the stillness of the air. "That's much nearer?" exclaimed the girl, looking up. "I say! I wish it wouldn't! I don't like thunder." "Scared of it?" "Rather. What shall we do if it comes right over?" "There may be some shelter of sorts further on. Meanwhile, don't think about it. Go on talking to me. What subject shall we find to wrangle about?" She laughed, and very soon found a subject; and thus they continued their way, until the path opened out from the narrow, stony, juniper-grown valley they had been descending, on to a wide, open plain, utterly destitute of foliage of any kind. The bulk of the party were now visible again, further in advance, looking mere specks, nearly three miles distant. "They will be in the _tangi_ directly," said Nesta, shading her eyes to watch the distant figures. "There, they are in it now," as the latter disappeared in what looked like the mountain side itself, for no rift was discernible from where these two now rode. "We had better get on, hadn't we?" urged Campian. "Oh no. I hate hurrying, and there's no earthly reason why we should." So they held on at the same foot's pace over the plain, which stretched its weary desolation far on either side of them. Here and there a great hump of earth, streaked with white gypsum, relieved the dead level monotony, but not a living thing--man, beast or bird--was in sight. Not even a sound was audible, except the deep-toned growl of the thunder, growing louder as they neared the mountain wall. "Good study for a subject illustrating the jaws of Death," remarked Campian, as, now before them, the mountain seemed to yawn apart in a vertical fissure, which the stupendous height of the cliffs on either hand caused to appear as a mere slit. "Yes. And--it's beginning to rain." Large drops were pattering down as they entered the jaws of the great chasm, but once within them there was shelter for a space, for the cliffs took an abrupt slant over at about a hundred feet above, so that the sky was no longer visible. A trickle of muddy water was already running down the stony footway. This should have warned Campian, at any rate; but then his experience of the country and this particular feature thereof, was not large. Nesta shivered. "I don't like this at all," she said. "It is horrible. What if the _tangi_ should come down?" The other glanced upward. The cliff walls were smooth and straight. Not a sign of ledge or projection to afford a foothold, no clinging shrub or tree anchored in a cleft. "Shall we go back?" he said. "There must be some way over." "No, no. I came through here once before, and I remember Mr Upward saying it would take a whole day to cross over the mountain. The _tangi_ is only about a mile long." "That means twenty minutes riding slow. Come along. We shall soon do it." But, even as his tone was, an ugly picture came before the speaker's mind--that of a rush of black water many feet high, syphoned between those smooth walls. Anxiously but furtively his glance scanned them as they rode along. As the narrowness of the passage wound and widened a little, the sky once more became visible overhead. The sky? But it had clouded over, and the rain fell somewhat smartly now upon the two wayfarers. A blue gleam of lightning shot down into the depths, and the reverberating peal which followed was as though telephoned in menacing boom through this tube-like chasm. Hundreds and hundreds of feet they towered up now, those iron-bound walls. It was like penetrating deeper and deeper into the black heart of the mountain. "See that place up there?" said Nesta, pointing to a kind of slanting ledge quite twenty feet above and which might be reached by a strong climber, though even then with difficulty. "Last time we came through here, Bhallu Khan told us that two men had been overtaken by a rush, and succeeded in getting to that point; but even there the water had reached one of them and swept him away. Horrible, isn't it?" "Very likely he invented the whole thing. He has an excellent imagination, has our friend Bhallu Khan." This he said to reassure her, not that he thought the incident improbable. Indeed, glancing up at the spot indicated, he saw that evidence in the shape of sticks and straws was not wanting to show that the water had at some time reached that altitude, and the idea was not pleasant. In the vivid sunshine of a cloudless day it would have added interest to their way; now, with a gathering storm breaking over their heads, and another half mile of what might at any moment become a raging death-trap before them, it was dismal. Another turn of the chasm, and the way, which had hitherto been level and pebbly, now led up over steep and slippery slabs. It became necessary to dismount, and here--Nesta's pony which she was leading, for it became necessary to adopt single file, slipped and fell badly on its side. By the time the terrified beast was on its legs again, shivering and snorting, and sufficiently soothed down to resume the way, some precious minutes had been lost. "We might mount again now," said Campian, noting that the way was smoother. "Come. Jump up." But instead of placing her foot in the hand held ready to receive it, the girl stood as though turned to stone. Every drop of blood had forsaken her face, which was now white as that of a marble statue, her lips ashy and quivering. "Hark!" she breathed, rather than uttered. "It is coming! We are lost!" His own countenance changed, too. He had heard it as soon as herself-- that dull raving roar, echoing with hollow metallic vibration along the rock walls. His heart almost died within him before the awfulness of this peril. "Oh no, nothing like that," he replied. "We must race it. We shall distance it yet, if we only keep our heads." The while he had put her into the saddle. Then taking the bridle, he began to lead her pony over the dangerous point of the way. The brute slipped and stumbled, now sliding, now about to pitch headlong, but both got through. "Now for it, Nessie. Give him all the pace you can, but keep him in hand. We'll race it easily." Down the _tangi_ now, giving their steeds all the rein they dared, these two rode for dear life. Then Nesta's pony stumbling over a loose stone, came right down, unhorsing his rider. "Don't leave me! Oh don't leave me!" she shrieked despairingly. "I can't move, my skirt is caught." "Leave you. Is it likely? What do you take me for?" came his reply, as in a moment he was dismounted and beside her. "Keep your head. It will be all right in a moment. There!" as a vigorous tug brought the skirt clear of the fallen animal, which lay as though stunned. But as she gained her feet, the dull hollow booming, which had been deepening ever behind them, became suddenly a roar of such terrible and appalling volume, that Campian's steed, with a wild snort of alarm jerked the bridle rein from his hand, and bolted wildly down the pass. It all came before him as in a lightning flash. The utter hopelessness of the situation. The flood had turned the corner of the reach they were now in. He saw it shoot out from the projecting ridge, and hurl itself with thunderous shock against the opposite rock face. Hissing and bellowing it sprung high in the air, then, flung back, amid a vast cloud of spray, it roared down upon them. One glance and only one, lest the terror of the sight should paralyse him, and he realised that in about two or three minutes that flood would be hurling their lifeless bodies from side to side against those grim rock walls. CHAPTER EIGHT. THE DARK JAWS OF DEATH. All as in a lightning flash some flicker of hope returned. For he saw they were underneath the place which Nesta pointed out to him as having afforded refuge to at any rate one in their position. It was their only chance. Hope well nigh died again. To climb there alone would be something of an undertaking--but with a helpless girl-- Yet he reached that point of refuge, but how he did so Campian never knew--never will know to his dying day. The superhuman effort; the hellish deafening din of the black flood as it shot past, so near as to splash them, clinging there to the steep rock face, not more than half way up to the place of refuge; of the words of encouragement which he whispered to his half-fainting charge athwart the thunder-roar of the waters, as he literally dragged her up beside him; of the tearing muscles and cracking joints, and blazing, scintillating brain--of all these he has a dim and confused recollection, and can only attribute the accomplishment of the feat to a well nigh superhuman mania of desperation. Higher still! No time for a pause or rest--no permanent foothold is here--and the waters are still rising. He dared not so much as look down. The daze of the lightning striking upon the rock face aided his efforts. The crash of the thunder peal was as entirely drowned in the bellowing and strident seething of this huge syphoned flood, as though it were silent. The refuge at last, but what a refuge! Only by the most careful distribution of weight could two persons support themselves on it for any length of time. It was hardly even a ledge, hardly more than a mere unevenness in the rock's surface. Yet, one of these two persons was a terribly frightened and far from robust girl; the other seemed to have expended air the strength within him in the effort of getting there at all. Thus they clung, mere pigmy atoms against this stupendous cliff wall; suspended over the seething hell of waters that would have churned the life out of them within a moment or so of reaching its surface. "There! We are safe now!" he gasped, still panting violently after the exertion. "We have only to wait until the water runs off. It will soon do that, you know." "No, it will not," she replied, her blue eyes wide with terror, and shudderingly turning her face to the cliff to avoid the awfulness of the sight. "It may take days. The _tangi_ by the camp took a whole night once. It was the night you came." "Well, even then? Upward will have had time to get through safely, ample time, and at the first opportunity they will come for us." "They won't find us," she moaned. "You know that place I showed you where Bhallu Khan told us the water had risen high enough to sweep a man off. It was higher than this." "I think not I think this is the higher of the two," he answered mendaciously. In her fear she had not recognised the place, and he would not undeceive her. For his part, he blessed the chance that had put the idea into his head. But for her having narrated the incident as they rode past, it might never have occurred to him that the attempt was feasible, and--what then? "We mustn't discount the worst," he went on. "The chances of it rising any higher are _nil_, and even if it does, there is plenty of margin before it reaches us. It isn't as if it were a case of an incessant and regular downpour. It is only one of those sharp afternoon thunder showers that run off these great slab-like rocks as off a roof on a huge scale. My dear little girl, you must be brave, and thank Heaven we were able to fetch this place at all. Look, I believe it has run off a little lower already." "Oh, no--no! I can't look. It is horrible--horrible!" she answered, as venturing one peep forth, she again hid her face, shuddering. And in truth her terror was little to be wondered at. It was growing dusk now in the world without, and the roar and hiss of the vast flood coursing with frightful velocity between those grim, cavernous cliffs in the shades, would have tried the nerves of anybody contemplating the scene from the impartial vantage ground of a place of safety. How then did it seem to these two, crouching on a steep slant of rock, whose unevenness alone sustained them in position; cowering over this awful flood, which might at any moment, rising higher, sweep them into a horrible death? And then, that the situation should lose nothing of its terror, Campian noticed, with a sinking of the heart, that the water actually was rising. Yes. A mark upon the iron-bound face of the opposite cliff, which had caught his attention on first being able to look round, was now covered. Was it the gathering gloom, or had the scratch been washed away? No. The latter was stratified. The water had risen nearly two feet. The depth at first he judged to be about ten feet. Two more had been added. He fixed another mark. The roaring was already so fearful it could hardly be increased. The hissing, boiling eddies of the rush, leaped over the new mark, then subsided--leaped again, and this time did not subside. They streamed over, hiding it completely. And still the rain poured down pitilessly, and he thought he could detect a peal of thunder above the roar of the waters, which suggested a renewed burst over the very catchment area which had supplied this flood. Well, he had done what he could. The end was not in his hands. "Oh-h--how cold it is!" moaned Nesta. "Of course; I was forgetting," he replied, with great difficulty divesting himself of his coat, for hardly so much as a finger could be spared in the effort involved to hold himself--to hold both of them--in position. But it was done at last, and the garment, all too light, he wrapped around the girl's shivering form. She uttered a feeble protest, which took not much overruling. "What a precious pair of drowned rats we must look, Nessita," he said; "and what a sight we shall be when they find us in the morning." "But they never will find us in the morning--not me, at any rate." "Won't they? They will though, and you will be the first to think of the appearances. Why, that pretty curled fringe that I and those two sodger Johnnies were eager to die for a little while ago is all over the shop. You should just see it now." Thus he bantered, as though they were in the snug dining tent at Upward's camp instead of amid a raving hell of terror and of imminent death. But the while the man's heart died within him, for in the last faint touch of light he noticed that yet another mark, higher than the rest, had disappeared. "I wonder which of those two Johnnies aforesaid would give most to be able to change places with me now," he went on, still bantering. "Or, at any rate, won't they just say so to-morrow? Here, you must get up close to me," he said, drawing her right to him. "It will serve the double purpose of keeping you from going overboard and keeping you warmer, and me too, perhaps." If ever there was time and place for conventionality, assuredly it was not here. Her violent shivering quieted down as she nestled against him. The warmth of the contact and the additional sense of protection combined to work wonders. "Now, talk to me," he said; "or try and go to sleep, if you would rather. I'll take care you don't fall over." "Sleep? I don't suppose I shall ever sleep again." "Rather, you will. And, Nessie, shall I tell you something you'd rather like to hear? The water is already beginning to go down." "What else has it been doing ever since we came up here?" "That's right!" he cried, delighted at this little spark of the old fun loving nature reasserting itself. "But, bar jokes, it really is lowering. I have kept an eye upon certain marks that were covered just now. They are visible again." The rain had ceased. The bellowing of the flood was as loud as ever, and but that they were talking into each other's ears, their voices would have been well nigh inaudible. What he had said was true, and with a great gladness of heart, he recognised the fact. "No, no! You are only saying that to make me think it is all right," she answered, the wild eagerness in her tone betraying something of the strain she had undergone. "It can't be really--is it? Say--is it really?" "It is really, so far as I can judge. But it has turned so confoundedly dark, one can hardly see anything. Keep up your spirits, child. You have had an adventure, that's all." "Well, you are a good one to share it with," she murmured. "Tell me, were you ever afraid of anything in your life?" "I should rather think I was, of heaps of things. I should have been hideously so before we started to climb up here, only there wasn't time. Oh don't make any mistake about me. I know what funk is, and that of the bluest kind." Thus he talked on, lightly, cheerily, and the girl, if she could not quite forget her numbness and terror and exhaustion, was conscious of no small alleviation of the same. It was pitch dark now, but the thunder of the waters, and the cavernous rattle of the stones and pebbles swept along by their rush, seemed to have abated in volume. An hour went by, then two. Nesta, half asleep, was answering drowsily. The gloom of the great chasm lightened. A full moon had risen over the outside world, and its rays were penetrating even to these forbidding depths. The roaring of the flood had become a mere purling ripple. The water had almost run off. Campian was becoming frightfully exhausted. Not much longer could he support this strain. Would Upward never arrive? He had succeeded, providentially, in climbing up here, under stress of desperation, but to descend safely now, cramped and exhausted as they both were, would be impossible. A broken neck, or a broken limb or two, would be the sure and certain result of any such attempt. As the moon-rays brightened, he could make out the bottom of the _tangi_, and it looked hideously far down, almost as if the rush of water had worn it deeper. It was all seamed and furrowed up, and the water was now babbling down in several little streams. Would help never arrive! Ha! At last! Voices--native voices--then, although talking in an Oriental tongue, other voices, recognisable as European ones. The sound was coming down the _tangi_. "Wake up, Nessita. Here they are, at last." But the girl had already heard, and started up with a suddenness which would have hurled her to the base of the cliff but for his restraining grasp. "Wait, wait!" he urged. "Be doubly careful now. We don't want to break our necks after a narrow shave of drowning." Then lifting up his voice, he gave forth a mighty shout. It was answered--answered by several voices. In the moonlight they could make out figures hurrying down the _tangi_. "Where are you?" sung out Upward, who led the way. Then he stopped short, with an ejaculation of amazement, as the answer revealed the objects of his search high overhead. "Good heavens! how did you get up there?" "Never mind now. What _we_ want to know is how to get down." But with Bhallu Khan and one of his forest guard were two or three sturdy Baluchis, who had joined the party--all wiry mountaineers--and by dint of making a kind of human pyramid against the rock wall, the pair were landed safely beneath. Then many were the questions and answers and ejaculations, as the full peril of the situation became apparent. Those who had undergone it had not much to say. Nesta seemed half dazed with exhaustion and recent terror, while Campian declared himself too infernally tired to talk. Fleming however produced a flask, which went far to counteract the cold and wet. The whole party was there. They had got safely through the _tangi_, when the rain began to come down in torrents, and in an incredibly short space of time the slab-like slopes of the hills had poured down a vast volume into the dry nullah, which drained the valley area. They themselves were through only just in time, but had felt no great anxiety on account of the other two, reckoning them so far behind that the impassability of the _tangi_ would be obvious to them directly they reached it. Of course they would not attempt it. But to find them here, half way through--saved as by a miracle, and then with the loss of two horses--no, they had not reckoned upon that. All this Upward explained. Then, looking up at their place of refuge: "I don't suppose there's another place in the whole length of the _tangi_ you could have taken refuge in, and how the mischief you ever got to this one is a mystery to me." "Well, for the matter of that, so it is to me, Upward," rejoined Campian. "I'm perfectly certain I couldn't do it again for a thousand pounds." "Why, that's the place a man was swept off from the year before last. Isn't it, Bhallu Khan?" "_Ha, Huzoor_!" asserted the forester, taking in the burden of their talk. "Well, you've had a narrow escape, old chap--both of you have. I don't know how you did it, but here you are. We were coming back to look for you, thinking you had got turned round, and might get trying some other way back, and this isn't an over-safe country for a couple of strangers to get lost in at night. By the way, I can't make out why you got so far behind. More than once we kept signalling you to come on. It occurred to us you might miss the way. Didn't you see us?" "No." "None so blind as those who won't see--ah--ha--ha--ha!" sneered Bracebrydge, tailing off his vacuous laugh in would-be significance. But of this remark Campian took absolutely no notice. It was not the first time Bracebrydge had rendered himself offensive and quarrelsome in the presence of ladies, and the inherent caddishness of this gallant worthy was best recognised by the silence of contempt. It was late before the party reached camp--later still when they got to bed. All was well that ended well--so far, that is, for Nesta Cheriton's nervous system had received a shock, which rendered her more or less out of sorts for some time, during which time, however, Bracebrydge and Fleming were recalled to Shalalai. CHAPTER NINE. AFTER LONG YEARS. "Let's get the ponies, and jog over and look up Jermyn. Shall we, Campian?" said Upward, during breakfast a few mornings later. "I'm on. But--who's Jermyn when he's at home?" "He isn't at home. He's out here now," cut in Lily. "Smart young party, Lil," said Campian, with an approving nod. "And who is he when he's out here now?" "Why, Jermyn, of course." "Thanks. That's precisely what I wanted to know. Thanks, fair Lilian. Thine information is as terse as it is precise." "_I_ should say _Colonel_ Jermyn if I were you, Lily," expostulated that young person's mother; whereat Hazel crowed exultantly, and Campian laughed. The latter went on: "As I was saying, Upward, before we were interrupted, who is Jermyn?" "Oh, he's a Punjab cavalry man up here on furlough. He's had fever bad, and even Shalalai wasn't high enough for him, though he doesn't want to go home, so he rented my forest bungalow for the summer. It's about eight miles in the Gushki direction. You haven't been that way yet." "So? And what does Jermyn consist of?" "Eh? Ah, I see. Himself and a niece." "What sort of a niece?" "Hideous," cut in Hazel. "Really, I can't allow that sort of libel to pass, even for a joke," said Mrs Upward. "She isn't hideous at all. Some people admire her immensely." "Pff!" ejaculated Lily, tip tilting her nose in withering scorn. "Too black." "Mr Campian likes them that way," cackled Hazel. "At least, he used to," added this imp, with a meaning look across the table at Nesta. "I was only humbugging. She isn't really hideous. We'll ride over too, eh, Lil?" "No, you won't--not much," retorted Upward decisively. "You two are a precious deal too fond of running wild as it is, and you can just stay at home for once. Besides, we don't want you at all. We may take on some chikor on the way, or start after some from Jermyn's. Shall you be ready in half an hour, Campian?" The latter replied in the affirmative, and they rose from the table. While they were preparing to start, he observed Nesta standing alone under the trees. "Well, Nessita, and of what art thou thinking?" he said, coming behind her unnoticed. She started. "Of nothing. I never think. It's too much trouble." "Phew! Don't take it so much to heart. They'll soon be back." "What a tease you are," she retorted petulantly. "I hope they won't. If you only knew how sick I am of the pair of them." "That so? I was going to say you'd have to make shift with me for the next few days, but--There, it's a sin to tease her. What's the matter? You're not looking up to your usual brilliancy of form and colouring, little girl." "Oh, I've got a most beastly headache. I'm going to try and go to sleep all day, if those two wretched children will let me." "Poor little girl! Shall I persuade Upward to let them come with us?" "No, no. It doesn't matter. You'd better go now, or you'll start Mr Upward fussing." "And cussing?" "Yes, that too. I'm going in now. Good-bye." "Nesta looks very much below par this morning, Upward," said Campian, as they rode along. "Does she? Finds it dull, perhaps, now, without those two jokers. She's never happy without a lot of them strung around her." "_So_? These blue-eyed, fluffy headed girls usually are that way, I have observed. They are wonderfully taking, but--lacking in depth." "Thought at one time she was rather stringing _yours_ on to her collection of scalps, old chap," said Upward, with a sly chuckle. "Because we went out chikor shooting together once or twice?" replied Campian tranquilly. "Talk of the devil--there _are_ some chikor." And the next few minutes were spent in dismounting--a rapid fifty paces through the sparse herbage--a whirr of wings--the triple crack of guns-- and a brace and a half of birds retrieved by the attendant forest guard; while the remainder of the covey, having gained the mountain side, was crawling up the rock slopes like spiders on a wall. "See that hole, Campian?" said Upward, soon after they had resumed their way. "That's the markhor cave. There's always a markhor there, the people say." "Let's go and see if he's at home now, except that we've only got shot guns," replied Campian, looking up at the black fissure pointed out, and which cleft the rock face some distance overhead, seeming to start from a grassy ledge. It looked by no means an inaccessible sort of place. "Bhallu Khan says he wouldn't be in now," said Upward, who had been talking in Hindustani to the old Pathan. "He only sleeps there." "So? Well, I don't believe in his markhor then, Upward. If the brute was so regular in his habits as all that, he'd have been shot long ago." "Very likely. But Bhallu Khan says the people are afraid of him. They don't believe he is a real markhor, but a spirit that takes the form of one. He is guarding some buried treasure, and it's unlucky to go near the place." "It wouldn't be unlucky if they found the treasure, by Jove! What does it consist of?" Upward spoke again to the old forester, whose answer, translated to Campian, caused the latter fairly to start in his saddle, his scepticism dispersed. "He says it is supposed to be old sword hilts and things, encrusted with the most priceless jewels. Hallo! You seem to believe in it, old chap?" "Not I. Only it reminded me of something else. But I suppose they have a yarn of the kind attached to pretty nearly every hole and corner of the land, eh?" "Yes. I have heard of others; but, curiously enough, now I think of it, this jewelled sword hilt idea doesn't seem to come into them. It's generally a case of tons of gold mohurs, and all that sort of thing." "I suppose so," asserted Campian tranquilly. But his tranquillity was all outward, for as they continued their way, his mind was very lively indeed. Was there really something in the legend? Had he struck upon the clue at last--not merely a clue, but the actual spot? How he wished he had learned Hindustani, so as to be able to communicate, at first hand, with those who might be able to furnish other clues. All save the wild Baluchis of the more remote and nomad clans spoke that language, and it was of primary importance to obtain information of this kind at first hand, and unfiltered through a third party. "Campian's very _chup_ to-day," thought Upward, peering furtively at his companion, who, during the last couple of miles, had hardly spoken, except in monosyllables. "I wonder if the sly old dog is really smashed on Nesta, and is thinking it over--I wonder?" He would have wondered more could he have read the thoughts of "the sly old dog" aforesaid, for they ran not upon love but upon lucre. "There's the bungalow," said Upward presently, pointing out a white low-roofed dwelling high up on the hillside. "Not a bad little place for a while, but most confoundedly out of the way." The path wound around the spurs, ascending more abruptly, mostly in the shade of the junipers, here growing to greater size, and more thickly. Presently they came out upon a small plateau, and the bungalow. "Hallo, Upward! Glad to see you. Don't get many visitors up here." "How do, colonel? This is Mr Campian--stopping with me. Nearly got shot by some Pathan budmashes, and then drowned by the _tangi_ coming down, on the night he arrived. You may have heard about it." "Not a word--not a word. Haven't seen a soul for weeks. Glad to meet you, Mr Campian. Fine view from here, isn't there?" "Splendid," assented Campian, who had been taking in both the speaker and the view. The former was of the pleasant, genial type of soldier-- elderly, grizzled, upright, well-groomed. The latter--well, it was fine--uncommonly so. From its eyrie-like position, the bungalow commanded a vast sweep of mountain and valley. Embedded against a background of juniper slope the front of the plateau looked out upon a scene, the leading idea conveyed by which was that of altitude and vastness. Opposite, a line of great mountains shot up in craggy heads to the sky; their slopes alternating in slab-like cliffs and gloomy chasms running up into lateral valleys. Juniper forest, more or less sparse, straggled along the base; and but for the aridity of the all prevailing stone and the scattered vegetation, the view would have been lovely. As it stood, it was only immense. Circling kites, uttering their plaintive whistle, floated in clouds against the blue of the sky, or, gracefully steering themselves with their long forked tails, soared out over the valley. "Fine air, too," went on Colonel Jermyn. "After the awful heat of some of those plains stations you can appreciate it, I can tell you. But I daresay, you got a taste of that on your way up?" "Rather. Coming through Sindh, for instance, if you leaned back suddenly in the train against the back of the seat, it was like leaning against a lot of fizzling Vesuvian heads." "Ah, prickly heat. We know what that is down below--don't we, Upward?" But the reply was lost in the soft rustle of draperies, and a softer voice: "How do you do, Mr Upward?" As the three rose, it needed not the formal introduction. The colonel's words seemed to sound from far away in Campian's ears. "My niece--Miss Wymer." The first utterance had been enough for Campian. There was no other such voice in the world. And as he stood there, exchanging the formal hand-clasp of ordinary every-day greeting with Vivien Wymer, small wonder that his self-possession should be shaken to the core. For, five years earlier, these two had parted--in anger and bitterness on the side of one, a whole world of heart-consuming love on that of both. They had parted, agreeing to be strangers thenceforward, and had been so, nor had they set eyes on each other since. Now, by the merest of chances, and totally unprepared, they met again amid the craggy mountain ranges of wild Baluchistan. "We were talking about the prickly heat, Vivien," went on the colonel. "Mr Campian says it was like leaning against burning match-heads coming up in the train--ha, ha! You look a trifle below par even now," turning to Campian. "Won't you have a `peg'? Upward, excuse me--what a forgetful ass I am. So seldom I see anyone up here I'm forgetting my manners. After your long, hot ride, too!" "Not feeling fit to-day. A new climate sometimes does knock me out at first," replied Campian mendaciously, he being both by constitution and practice as hard as nails. He was savage with himself for losing his self-possession, even for a moment. "No lack of that article on the other side, anyway," he thought bitterly. Outwardly there was not. Vivien Wymer's manner in greeting him had been so perfectly free and unconcerned that not one in ten thousand would have dreamed she had ever set eyes on him before. Nor, as she sat there talking to Upward, could the keenest ear have detected a trace of flurry in her soft-voiced, flowing tones; and what ear could be keener than that of the man who sat there, straining to catch every word--every tone--while endeavouring to avoid replying at random to the conversation of his host. "That'll pick you up," said the latter, as the bearer appeared with a tray containing very tall tumblers and a bottle and syphons. "Nothing like a `peg' after a hot ride. We can't get ice up here, but I always have the stuff kept in a cooler. Mix for yourself." "You must come down to our camp for a day or two, Miss Wymer," Upward was saying. "You'll come, too, won't you, colonel? There are still some birds left. It's rotten shooting, but all there is here." Thereupon the conversation turned on _shikar_ in general, and tiger in particular, and Campian felt relieved, for now he could drop out of it. Five years ago it was that he and Vivien had parted--yes, exactly five years--and now, as he sat watching her, it seemed as though but five days had passed over her, for all the change they had brought-- outwardly, at any rate. All was the same--the poise of the head--even the arrangement of the rippling waves of soft dark hair had undergone but slight alteration; the quick lifting of the eyelids, the glance, straight and full, of the heavily fringed eyes. Yet, if taken feature by feature, Vivien Wymer could not have been summed up as beautiful. Was it a certain grace of movement inseparable from a perfect symmetry of form--an irresistible, sensuous attractiveness side by side with a rare refinement--that would have set her on the highest pinnacle, while other women, beautiful as a dream, would have been passed by unnoticed? He could not say. He only knew that she had appealed to him as no other woman had ever done before or since; that the possession of her would fill every physical and mental want--we desire to emphasise the latter phase, in that it was a question of no wild whirlwind of infatuated passion. She had drawn out in him--as regarded herself, at any rate-- all that was best; had even been the means of implanting within him qualities wholly beneficial, and which he would have repudiated all capacity for entertaining. In her he had recognised his destined counterpart. He might live a thousand years and never again meet with such. He was no longer young. He had known varied and eventful experiences, including a sinister matrimonial one, mercifully for himself, comparatively short. But Vivien Wymer had been the one love of his life, and the same held good of him as regarded herself, yet they met again now as strangers. One thing he decided. They were to keep up the _role_. Since she wished it--and evidently she did wish it--he would offer no enlightenment. "Is your friend keen on sport, Upward?" the colonel was saying. "You ought to take him to try for a markhor." "Don't know that I care much for sport in that form," cut in Campian. "It represents endless bother and clambering; all for the sake of one shot, and that as likely as not a miss. The knowledge that it is going to be your one and only chance is bound to make you shoot nervous. Now, I like letting off the gun a great deal, not once only." "Yes, it means a lot of hard work. Well, you've come to the wrong country for sport." "By the way, colonel," said Upward, "my head forester points out a cave on the way here, where they say there's always a markhor. It doesn't seem difficult to get at I don't believe in it myself, because there's a legend attached." And thereupon he went into the whole story. Vivien was listening with deepening interest. "I should like to see that place," she said. "Anything to do with the legends of the people and country is always interesting. Could we not arrange to go and explore it? You say it is easy to get at?" "I think so," answered Upward. "We might make a picnic of it. Two fellows from Shalalai who joined camp with me are coming back to-morrow or the next day, and we might all go together. What do you say, colonel?" "Oh, I don't mind. Getting rather old for clambering, though. Come along in to tiffin; that's the second gong." Throughout that repast, Vivien addressed most of her conversation to Upward. Campian, however, who had pulled himself together effectually by now, was observing her keenly. When she did have occasion to answer some remark of his, it was as though she were talking to a perfect stranger, beheld that morning for the first time. Very good. If that were the line she desired to keep to, not in him was it to encroach upon it. He had his share of pride, likewise of vindictiveness, and some of the aggrieved bitterness of their parting was upon him now. But he remembered also that the ornamental sex are consummate actors, and felt savage with himself for having let down his own guard. And this impassiveness he kept up throughout the ordeal of again saying good-bye. "Well, and what did you think of Colonel Jermyn, Mr Campian?" queried Mrs Upward, when they were seated at dinner that evening. The two men had returned late, having fallen in with more chikor on the way, and she had had no opportunity of catechising him before. "He seems a pleasant sort of man," returned Campian. "There was some scheme of cutting them into a kind of exploration picnic, wasn't there, Upward?" he went on, with the idea of diverting an inevitable cross-examination. "_Them_! You saw the niece, then?" rapped out Hazel. "What did you think of her?" "Think? Why, that you are a shocking little libellist, Hazel, remembering your pronouncement." "It wasn't me who said she was too black; it was Lily." "_He's_ mashed too," crowed that young person, grinning from ear to ear. "Why `too,' Lilian? Is the name of those in that hapless plight legion?" "Rather. You haven't a ghost of a show. Down at Baghnagar she had three regiments at her feet. But she wouldn't have anything to say to any of them." "That looks as if one _had_ a ghost of a show, Lil," replied Campian, serenely bantering. In reality, he had two objects to serve--one to cover the situation from all eyes, the other, haply to extract from the chatter of this hapless child anything that might throw light on Vivien's life since they parted. "Pff! not you," came the reply, short and sharp. "There was _one_-- once. She chucked him. No show for anybody now." "What a little scandalmonger it is," said Campian, going off into a shout of laughter. He had to do it, if only to relieve his feelings. The information thus tersely rapped out by Lily, and which drew down upon the head of that young person a mild maternal rebuke for slanginess, had sent his mind up at the rebound. "Where did she get hold of that for a yarn, Mrs Upward?" "Goodness knows. Things leak out. Even children like that get hold of them in this country;" whereupon Lily sniffed scornfully, and Hazel fired off a derisive cackle. "Do you think her good looking, Mr Campian?" "Decidedly; and thoroughbred at every point." The humour of the situation came home to the speaker. Here he was, called upon to give a verdict offhand as to the one woman who for years had filled all his thoughts, who still--before that day to wit--had occupied a large portion of them, and he did so as serenely and unconcernedly as though he had never beheld her before that day. "Why did she chuck--the other fellow?" he went on, moved by an irresistible impulse to keep them to the subject. "He turned out a rip, I believe," struck in Upward. "Lifted his elbows too much, most likely. A lot of fellows out here do." "You've got it all wrong, Ernest," said his wife. "You really shouldn't spread such stories. It was for nothing of the sort, but for family reasons, I believe; and the man was all right. And it wasn't out here either." "Oh, well, I don't know anything about it, and I'll be hanged if I care," laughed Upward. "I asked them to come down here for a few days soon, and they said they would. Then you can get it out of her yourself." CHAPTER TEN. THE MARKHOR CAVE. "There is a large section of our fellow subjects that votes Alpine climbing the most incomprehensible form of lunacy known to science, on the ground that to spend half one's life, and putting the whole of it in pawn, scrambling up rocks and ice and snow, for the sake of getting to the top of some pinnacle which a hundred people have already got to, and thousands more eventually will, is to place one's self beyond the pale of ordinary intelligence. But I wonder what such would say of a being of mature age, and laying claim to the possession of ordinary intelligence, who skips up in the middle of the night, and under the guidance of an Asiatic whom he can't understand, and who can't understand him, spends several hours crawling over boulders and along blood curdling precipices, on the off-chance of one shot--and the certainty of a miss--at an infernal wild goat, which is of no earthly use to you when you get him, except to stick up his head and brag about it ever after. The Alp-climber would have to cede to him the proud distinction of prize imbecile, I guess." Thus mused Campian, as, following in the wake of Bhallu Khan, he wormed himself warily around an elbow of rock, between which and space, was a foothold just twenty inches as to width, and precarious as to stability, he bearing in mind the while two considerations--firstly, the desirability of refraining from dislodging so much as a pebble; secondly, the necessity of refraining from dislodging himself. The first grey of early dawn was just breaking upon the mountain world, and here he was spread-eagled against a cliff of dizzy height and well nigh perpendicular formation: raked by a piercing wind, and wondering whether he should eventually get off it by the ordinary tedious process of slow and sure progression or by the rapid one of a false step--leading to pulverisation. As to one consideration, however, he laboured under no ambiguity of mind. Nothing on earth should induce him to return by the way he had come, even if it must needs take a week to go round by some safer way. In due course however, the situation improved. The rock face grew less perpendicular, the path wider, and finally they found themselves in a steep gully. Here the old Pathan, pointing upward began signalling vehemently, the gist of which Campian took to be that he must proceed more noiselessly than ever, and that the ridge above being gained, they would find markhor. A clamber of a hundred feet--one pebble dislodged with a clatter, bringing his heart to his mouth, and a reproachful glance from Bhallu Khan--and they were cowering behind the top of the ridge. Campian wanted a few moments to steady himself after their long, hard climb. He could not shoot straight in a state of breathlessness, he declared. It was quite light up here now, but the sun had not risen above the eastern mountain-tops. As they peered over the ridge, the valley beneath still lay in the grey half-dawn. But between it and their point of vantage, on the rock-strewn slopes beneath, something was moving, and it needed not the touch on the arm from the old Pathan and the barely articulated whisper to set Campian's nerves tingling. He had already taken the rifle from the forester so as to be in readiness. "Markhor," he whispered. Bhallu Khan nodded. A solitary ram, with fine horns, was browsing unconcernedly. There was no getting any nearer. Campian set the sight at four hundred yards. Then resting the rifle upon the rock in front of him, he took a steady aim and drew trigger. The roar of the piece among the echoing stillness of the craggy solitudes was like a peal of thunder. The markhor gave one wild bound into the air, and a thrill of exultation went through the shooter. But the disappointed headshake of Bhallu Khan would promptly have undeceived him, even had not the quarry taken to its heels and gone bounding down the slope at a flying gallop. He let go a couple more shots from the magazine, but wider than the first. Then he threw up the rifle in mingled disgust and resignation, the markhor now being a mere bounding and very badly frightened speck. "No good!" he exclaimed. "Can't do anything with certainty over two hundred yards, and that brute was nearer five than four. Well, I didn't expect to, so am not disappointed, and it doesn't really matter a little damn." The only word of this reflection understood by Bhallu Khan being the last, he smiled, and proceeded to expatiate in Hindustani, profusely illustrating his harangue with signs. But of this, for his part, Campian understood not even the last word. He cared the less for his failure to bring down the game in that this had not been his primary object. The pretext of sport had been a pretext only. He wanted to explore the markhor cave, and that quietly and by himself, wherefore, when a couple of days after their visit to Jermyn he had suggested to Upward a markhor stalk, the latter, remembering his expressed views on the subject of hard toil inadequately rewarded, had evinced considerable surprise, but excused himself from joining on that very ground, which was exactly what Campian had expected. Now they were no great distance above that cave, and he soon signalled Bhallu Khan his desire to proceed thither. Somewhat to his surprise, remembering the superstition attached, the old Pathan cheerfully acquiesced, and a downhill climb of about three quarters of an hour brought them to a position commanding its entrance. Signing him to remain there and watch, the forester crawled round to the rock above the gaping black fissure, where by dint of making a considerable noise, and rattling down showers of stones, he hoped to drive forth its inmate. But there came forth nothing. "This markhor is a fraud, anyway," said Campian to himself. And he signalled Bhallu Khan to return just as that estimable Asiatic had himself arrived at the conclusion that there was no point in making further efforts to scare out of a hole something which was not within it. Then they sat on the rock together and conversed, as best they could by signs, while Campian breakfasted on some sandwiches and the contents of a business-like flask. The sun had risen now, and was reddening the great craggy pinnacles on high with the new glow of day. Later on these would bear an arid and depressing aspect, but now they seemed to soar up proudly to the deepening blue. Meditatively Campian watched the line of light as it dropped lower and lower, soon to flood the valley with its fierce heatwave. Now it had reached the _kotal_, now it was just touching the junipers which embedded the forest bungalow. He could not see the latter from his present position, it being shut off by a rounded spur; but the immediate surroundings of it drew his glance. Not that they reminded him--oh, no! He had needed no mere reminder since that chance meeting three days ago. Bother thinking! Thinking was worse than useless. Springing to his feet, he signed Bhallu Khan that he wanted to explore the cave. The fissure was easily approached, opening as it did on to a grass ledge. Campian produced a couple of candles, thereby betraying premeditation in this quest, and, lighting one, gave the other to the old Pathan. Then they advanced into the darkness. The fissure ran at a slant for about ten yards, then it widened out, with a tolerably level floor, to an irregularly shaped rock chamber, seeming to extend about thirty yards back. The light was flickering and uncertain, and Campian, who was a little in front, felt his arm suddenly and violently seized, and a voice vociferated in his ear. For a brief fraction of a second the idea of treachery flashed through his mind; then he recognised in Bhallu Khan's tone the vehemence not of menace but of warning. He had been about to step on a broad, black stripe which lay across the floor of the cavern. Now he halted, his foot already raised. He lowered his candle. The broad, black stripe was a fissure--a crevasse. Of no great width was it--at that point only just wide enough to admit his own body--still it _was_ wide enough. But what of its depth? Motioning him to stand still, the forester picked up a handful of loose stones, and dropped them in one by one. Both listened. The stones took some time to strike anything, and then it was very far down. There was yet a further and fainter concussion. Bhallu Khan smiled significantly, and shook his head. Campian whistled. Both looked at each other. Then they examined the crevasse again. No current of air arose, which argued no outlet. But the thing was of ghastly depth. "Your markhor is a fraud, Bhallu Khan," said Campian, as they inspected the floor of the cave, and emphasising the statement by signs. "There is no trace of such a thing ever having been into it." The other smiled again, and nodded assent. But just then a sound outside made them start and look at each other. It was that of a human voice. Bhallu Khan blew out his light, and Campian followed his example. Thus for a moment they waited. Footsteps were advancing into the cave. Then the striking of a match. They made out the figure of a man approaching--a native--bearing a lighted candle, which he shaded with his hand. Behind him came another figure, which they could not make out. "Salaam, brother," said Bhallu Khan in Hindustani, at the same time lighting his own candle. The effect on the newcomer was disturbing. He gave a violent start, dropping the candle, which went out. But by their own light Campian could see a business-like revolver pointed straight at him, while a full, clear, feminine voice cried out in purest English: "Don't move, or I fire!" It was his turn to start now. That voice! There was no other like it in the world. He replied calmly: "Yes. Pull off. You may as well. It won't really matter much." "Oh!" Just a little cry escaped Vivien Wymer. She lowered the weapon, then laughed, and there was a note in her laugh which, in one less self possessed, less self reliant, might almost have been taken for hysterical. "Who would have thought of finding you--anyone--here?" she went on. "But I believe I was the more startled of the two." "Yes, I am sure you were," he replied, advancing now into the light. "We haven't said `How d'you do?' yet, and it's as well to keep up the conventionalities." She put forth her hand to meet his, and again they clasped hands. Again they had met under strange and unlooked for circumstances--here, in the semi-gloom of the mountain cave. "I was so interested in hearing about this place," she said. "Mr Upward's account of it seemed to hold my imagination, and I felt moved to explore it for myself. I did not feel inclined to wait for a scheme that might never come off. Besides, the associations of mystery and a touch of eeriness would have no effect in the midst of an every day, sceptical crowd." "Great minds jump together! That was precisely my own idea. But who is with you? Surely you are not alone, with only one servant, and not a very reliable one at that, judging from his behaviour just now. It is hardly safe, is it?" "Yes, it is. All these northern border tribes are of the best type of Mohammedan, and respect women. No, I am not afraid." "You did not seem so just now, at any rate. But it is not only of that sort of danger I was thinking. A gloomy hole like this might conceal all kinds of hidden peril. It might be the den of a panther, or a wolf, or even a snake. For instance, look at this. Keep behind me, though." He led the way--it was only a few steps--to the scene of his own narrow escape. There yawned the cleft, black and hideous. "Keep back," he said, extending an arm instinctively, as though to bar a nearer advance, and in doing so his hand accidentally closed upon hers. He did not let it remain there, but it seemed as though a magnetic touch were conveyed from frame to frame, and there came a softness into his tone which accorded well with the protecting, shielding attitude. "Is it very deep?" asked Vivien, holding her candle over the brim, and peering down into the blackness. "Well, judging by the sound, it takes a stone a good while to get to the bottom. I should have been there myself long before this but for Bhallu Khan here. In fact, I was placidly walking into it when he laid violent hands on me." "Really? How horrible! Let's leave it now, and go outside. The idea of such a thing oppresses one in here." She turned away. Her voice was unshaken. Beyond just a faint quickening in her tone, she might have been listening to some mere abstract risk run by somebody she had never seen or heard of before, and Campian could not see her face. "Just take one more look around before you go outside," he said. "The idea of those hidden valuables being here won't wash. Both floor and walls are of solid rock. There is no possibility of burying anything." "Hardly, I should think," she answered, after a few moments' critical survey of the interior. "But, this is not an artificial cavern, surely?" "No. I have seen others rather like it, though none quite of its size. But if you follow out the formation of the place, it is all on the same slant. The crevasse, to be sure, is at something of a different angle, but that is nothing to go by here, where the whole side of a mountain is seamed and criss-crossed with the most irregular network of fissures." "What if the things are at the bottom of that cleft?" said Vivien. At the bottom of it! This was a new idea. Was it a new light? But he replied: "Then they will remain there till the crack of doom. The hole is of immense depth--Bhallu Khan and I sounded it from every point--and is sure to contain noxious gas at a certain distance below the surface. Do you mind if I ask you a favour?--oh nothing very great!" seeing her start. "It is not to talk about this, or speculate before others as to the possibility of such a thing existing." "Why, of course, if you wish it! But--do you believe in it, then?" "Perhaps partly. But it may be that I have something to go upon. When I have more I will tell you more--but--I am forgetting--how on earth can it interest you?" "But it will interest me very much--and--" "you know it," she was going to add, but substituted: "life is prosaic enough for a romantic search of this sort to add new interest to it. How is it I did not know you were here?" "Here--on this spot, or in this country?" "On this spot, I mean. The other is easily understood. We have been living out of the way so long, and I see so few people. And you have only recently arrived?" "Yes. As to being in here, I had no pony to leave outside. I have been climbing the mountains after markhor, hence a tolerably disreputable old Khaki suit, and a battered and general air of not having been to bed all night." "Did you have any success?" "No. I got in one shot, but missed it of course, just as I was saying when up at your place the other day. However, what I really wanted to do was to come in quietly here and explore." "So did I. Where is my syce, I wonder? There is my pony," looking around, for they had regained the entrance of the cave. "Ah! I see him. He is at his prayers. Your man has joined him." "Yes. Old Bhallu Khan is a whale at piety. I should think he stood a first-class chance of the seventh heaven." "These people are very devout," said Vivien, looking towards the two Mohammedans, who, with their shoes off, and their chuddas spread on the ground as praying carpets, were prostrating their foreheads to the earth, and otherwise following out the prescribed formula--facing towards the holy city. "I sometimes wonder if it is all on the surface." "I don't know why it should be. We make a good deal of show, too, though in a different way; but I doubt if we are any better than they. In fact, it is more than possible we are actually worse. But John Bull has a fine, hearty, overgrown, schoolboy contempt for anything he can't understand, and to him the bowings and prostrations enjoined by the Moslem form of worship is sheer nonsense. For my part, I am not sure it is not even too refined for him." "Perhaps. I have often thought that to these people we must seem something worse than Pagans. I hardly wonder at their fanatical hatred of us." "Neither do I, the more so that our attitude towards them is for the most part well exemplified in the remark made to me by a fine wooden specimen of John Bull the other day coming down the Red Sea. Two or three of these travelling traders had got up on the forecastle, and were praying towards Mecca. `Ever see such humbug in your life?' says this chump. I said I had, and far greater humbug; in fact, couldn't see any humbug in the present performance at all. Oh, but it was all on the surface! How did he know that? I asked him. Oh, because they would lie and cheat and so forth. But so would nine-tenths of the English commercially engaged, I answered. Whereat he snorted, and moved off. He thought I was a fool. I knew he was one." "Very much so," assented Vivien. "I detest that wooden-headedness which no amount of moving about the world will ever teach to think. And now that those two good people are through with their devotions, it is time I got home again. Oh, Meran Buksh, _ghora lao_!" The syce sprang to execute this order, and in a minute Vivien's pony was before her, ready to mount. "Why this is the first time you have ever put me on a horse," she said, as Campian seemed to be arranging her skirt with minute care, "and how well you did it." "Thanks," he said. "There. I hope you will not have too hot a ride home. Good-bye." "Good-bye. You will be coming up to see us again soon, I suppose, or we shall be going to see Mrs Upward. You are going to make some stay, are you not?" He replied in the affirmative, and, looking at her as she sat there with easy grace, he felt that never had his self-possession been in greater peril. Cool and fresh and sweet in her light blouse and riding-skirt-- her glance full and serene meeting his--the flush of health mantling beneath the soft skin, she was a picture in her dark, brilliant attractiveness, framed against the background of savage rocks and ragged junipers. "Good-bye," was all he said. A pressure of the hand, and she turned her pony and rode away at a walk, the syce following. Campian watched her out of sight. Then he did a curious thing--at any rate for a man of mature age and judgment. He returned to the cave and picked up a small rough stone, quite an ordinary stone it was, but while they had stood talking Vivien had been rolling this stone absently to and fro beneath the sole of her boot. Now he picked it up, and, glancing at it for a moment, put it in his pocket. But he seemed to change his mind, for, pulling it forth again, he hurled it away far over the rocks. Then he started out in the direction of Upward's camp, old Bhallu Khan, carrying the rifle, following close at his heels. CHAPTER ELEVEN. INTROSPECT. "You're late, child. Had a long ride?" said Colonel Jermyn, who was already at breakfast when Vivien entered. "Not very. The mountain paths here are so rough, you have to keep almost entirely to a walk. And I met Mr Campian, so we stopped and chatted a little." "Did you? Where?" "Somewhere on the side of the mountain. I don't know the localities here yet," replied Vivien, with perfect ease. She had been about to say, "at the markhor cave," but remembering Campian's hint, refrained. "He had been out after markhor, with that nice-looking old forester of Mr Upward's, and was on his way back." "Did he get any shots?" "One, and missed it. He was quite unconcerned about it though, and didn't go out of his way to invent half a hundred excuses for having missed it." "Ha, ha!" laughed the colonel. "So many of these young fellows--and old ones too--are always full of reasons of that kind. A stone slipped from under their foot, or the _shikari_ sneezed, or something. There is something I rather like about that man. Who is he? Do you know anything about him?" This was shooting the bolt home with a vengeance. But Vivien's self-possession was equal to the strain. "Isn't there a family of that name in Brackenshire?" she asked carelessly. "I believe there is. Yes, very likely. I thought we might ask him to come and stay a week or so when he has done with the Upwards, or even before. What do you think about it, Vivien?" "Wouldn't he find it desperately slow here, Uncle Edward?" she said, as serenely as before. "Perhaps; I don't know. If he did, he could always take himself off again. And now, if you'll excuse me, dear, I'll do likewise, for that confounded Levy sowar will be here directly for the _dak_, and I've got a whole pile of letters to write. It's mail day, too." Left to herself, Vivien moved about the room arranging here, dusting a little there. No flowers were obtainable in this arid region of rocks, save a few wild ones, but even of these she had made the best; and what with little touches of feminine tastefulness in the arrangement of the rooms, the old forest bungalow, rough and racketty, and hardly better than a mere rest-house, stood quite transformed. Then, passing into her own room, she shut the door, and sat down to think. Far away from wild, craggy Baluchistan her thoughts went back. A chance call, a chance introduction in a room full of people. A few minutes of ordinary conversation as between strangers who met for the first time, and--she had learned the mystery of life when life is young--though not always then--had gazed within the golden gates of love; had trodden the flower-springing sod of that radiant and mystic realm; and not only that, but she had known, with a wondrous magnetic instinct, that in the same moment of time another had learned that mystery too. Then she had begun to live; then she had begun to realise what life could contain. Other scenes rose before her as she sat here thinking--a vision of the Park corner, in all the joyous glow and brilliancy of the London season at its height--with one ever at her side--one who there in the midst of all the varied types of beauty, and style and attractiveness of the kingdom collected together, never--as she used to tell him half playfully, but all proudly--never had eyes for any but herself. Ah, it was something to be loved like that; and yet this was not the perfervid enthusiasm, the red-hot glow of youthful adoration, but the love of one considerably past that illusive stage; whose experiences had been multifold, and frequently bitter. Again, she saw the green glories of the Cliveden woods, mirrored in the broad placid surface, as she and one other floated down that loveliest of lovely reaches in the fire-path of the westering sunlight, alone together, the murmur of their voices and the dipped wing of the hovering swallow blending with the lazy splash of the sculls. Again, in the opera box, while the most splendid staging perhaps that "Faust" had ever been put on with, held the entranced and densely packed multitude in the lowered light, _she_ dwelt in a paradise all her own, for had she not the presence, even the contact of that one? Many and many a scene came before her now. Ah, that year! It had been indeed a year of love. And in every such scene, in every such recollection he had been ever the same. Never a moment of time that he could spare but had been spent with her--indeed not a few also that he could not--and throughout it all how perfectly free and happy together, how thoroughly at home with each other they had been. Why, then, had such a state of things been allowed to come to a close? Heavens! It is a rare--well nigh unique--one, in all conscience. Had he deceived her--disappointed her? Not any. But there had come stalking along that goggle-eyed, sheet-and-turnip bogey hight Duty--that Juggernaut which has crushed far more lives than it has ever fortified, and now, in her retrospect, Vivien Wymer realised, not for the first time, and no less bitterly, that this is just what it had done for hers. For at the period to which her thoughts went back, she owned a mother-- and a selfish one, as mothers now and again are, all cant to the contrary notwithstanding--and this devoted parent could not do without her daughter, although she had another. Here was the jagged rock beneath the surface of their unruffled sea, and upon it their freight of happiness had been wrecked and cast away. At the time Vivien had thought herself passing strong, and the consciousness of this had done much to buoy her up amid such an experience of agony and heartbreak that even now she hardly cares to look back to. That had been five years ago. She was young then, and now that she is nearer thirty than twenty she is able to realise that she acted insanely; is able to realise that the love which that one had lavished upon her was worth more than that of all the kindred in the world ten times over, let alone such a consideration as an imaginary duty towards a thoroughly selfish and exacting woman, merely because the latter happened to be her nearest relation. She has come to realise the absolute truth of his words, and the realisation brings with it no solace, for, like most other experiences worth gaining, it has come too late. Her mother has been dead for three years past, and her younger sister, now married, is not eager to see too much of her; and to Duty, as represented by these, Vivien has sacrificed her life. But he--will he not relent and return? Can he live without her? Well, five years have passed since they parted, and he has kept to their agreement. She knows his nature--unswerving, vindictive--indeed the very contrast afforded between this and the completeness of his love for herself had not a little to do with drawing her to him. His words during that awful parting had been few, and their raging bitterness to some degree suppressed, and that he should come second to anything or anybody, was what he never could and never would forgive. Would he relent? Never. She went back to their chance meeting in the markhor cave but a few hours ago, recalled every word of their conversation. The very tone of his voice had never swerved. Her ear, quick to detect any change, had detected none--not even by the smallest inflection. His manner had been kind, friendly, full of a certain modicum of regard--but that was all. Had he not often told her that a lost illusion was gone for ever? Never could it be set up again. His love was dead, and she had killed it. But--was it? Surely not. It was only sleeping, deeply perhaps, but would re-awaken. She would re-awaken it. It was impossible that such a love as theirs had been could die in either of them as long as life should last. Then a blank misgiving seized her. They had not met for five years. Then she was twenty-three. What changes had the intervening period effected in her? She gazed into her mirror long and steadily. Yes, she was growing old-- old and plain, decidedly, she told herself with an aching bitterness of heart. The soft sprightliness of five years earlier was no longer in her face. It had gone. Alone with herself she need not dissimulate. In those days the bright and sunny spirits of rejoicing youth had radiated from her eyes; now, though her eyes were as lustrous and brilliant as ever, their glance was a tired one, reflecting but the sadness of a lonely and disappointed woman. Undoubtedly the change had struck him, and with startling force. No; his love would never re-awaken now. Why should it? In the day of her power she had let it go; now her power had departed. Then another thought came to her. That blue-eyed girl staying with the Upwards--she was wondrously pretty. Vivien had seen her once in Shalalai. The two would be thrown together day after day, and all day long--had been so thrown together. They had even shared a common peril. And she had youth on her side. What sort of tone would his voice have taken while talking to her, Vivien wondered, again recalling the perfect composure of his conversation but an hour or two ago in the cave. No reference--not even a veiled one--to the past; no remark upon the unexpectedness of their first meeting. True, he had seemed a trifle disconcerted on the occasion of that meeting; but that was only natural--and momentary. Yes, Nesta Cheriton was wonderfully pretty and taking. Thus she tortured herself. But while she could do that alone and with her own thoughts, Vivien would rather have died than have allowed any glimmering of their gist to be so much as suspected by any living soul, let alone the object of them. She forgot to wonder at her own self-possession on the occasion of that first meeting; and indeed on that of the subsequent one. It had proved even more complete than his own, and she forgot to speculate as to whether he might not be taking his cue from her and playing up to her lead. That is the worst of introspection of the vehement kind, it is absolutely blinding as regards the attitude towards the object which inspires it. Then, by a curious twist in her meditations, pride sprang into arms. If one man could so completely dismiss her from his heart and memory, there were others who could not. She unlocked a drawer of her writing-table and took out a letter. Spreading it open before her, she glanced through it. It was from one who was the owner of a fine old country place and a good many thousands a year, and contained a passionate appeal to her to reconsider her former refusals. This letter she had intended to answer last week. But now? She read it through again. Why should she continue to throw away life, grieving over what was past and done with; what was inevitable; what was dead and buried? It was more sensible to take life as it is, and make the best of things. She would accept the man. There was no reason why she should not, and every reason why she should. She drew a sheet of paper to her, but before she had got further than the address, a new thought struck her. What if she had so replied by last mail--that is to say, the day before this other had been so unexpectedly thrown back into her life? Nay, worse. What if she had so replied to a like appeal from the same quarter nearly a year ago? That decided her. She wrote her reply--and it was in the negative, very unequivocally so--stamped and directed it, and threw it aside. Then she did a strange--and in view of her former meditations--an utterly inconsequent thing. She took another sheet of paper and wrote: "We were to be strangers to each other. Had we not better remain so? You will understand my meaning fully within the next few days. Of course I have no right to try and influence your movements, so must leave it to your own judgment to order them in what seems to me the only rational and sensible way. "Vivien." This she put into an envelope, which she sealed, but did not stamp. Then she directed it to "Howard Campian, Esquire, Chirria Bach." No; she could not bear it. To be under the same roof with him for days, possibly weeks at a time, and keep up the _role_ of strangers to each other, would be too great a strain. Now, when he should receive her uncle's invitation he would know what to do. On the face of such an intimation there was but one course open to him. A rap came at the door, and her uncle's voice: "Got any letters to send, Viv? The Levy sowar is here." "Only one," she answered, opening the door, and handing him the one bearing the English address. "The other I want to go in the opposite direction. The man can take it this evening when he passes here with the Upwards' _dak_." "All right." And in a moment more the clatter of the horse's hoofs died away down the path, and the swarthy Baluchi, in his Khaki uniform, jogged indifferently upon his way, as though he were not the bearer of that which by a turn or freak of thought had just escaped being an agency for entailing solemn consequences upon one or more lives. "By George! this hill air seems to suit you, child," cried the jolly colonel, gazing upon his niece with undisguised admiration. "I can't make out what all these young fellows--young fools, I call them--are about. Eh?" "Have I not got a dear old uncle, who talks shocking nonsense on privileged occasions?" returned Vivien, slipping her hand within his arm. "Why, I am getting as old as the hills, and am `going off' perceptibly every hour. Do I not own a looking-glass?" "A looking-glass? Pooh! it's a lying one then. We'll pitch it over the _khud_, and send Der' Ali down to the bazaar for one that is more truthful. But, then--I am forgetting. This isn't Baghnagar, and there's no bazaar." "No, there isn't, and a good thing too, if it is going to conduce to such scandalous waste," retorted Vivien brightly. "I believe it's not fair, eh? It seems hard lines on you, child, shutting you up here, with no one to talk to but a prosy old fellow like me, eh?" "Now, Uncle Edward, it is you who will have to go over that _khud_ instead of my poor, unoffending, candid looking-glass, if you persist in talking such a prodigious quantity of nonsense." That evening the Levy sowar arrived in due course, with Colonel Jermyn's post, and clattered off, bearing that of Upward. But the letter addressed to Howard Campian, at Chirria Bach, still lay upon Vivien's writing-table. CHAPTER TWELVE. UMAR KHAN--FREEBOOTER. Umar Khan was a Baluchi who bore a very bad record indeed. One of his earlier exploits, in fact, that which was destined to start him in his career of _budmashi_, and ultimately, in all probability, land him on the scaffold and faggot pyre [Note 1], had taken place many years before the events narrated in our story. He had been summoned before the Political Agent to answer for complicity--real or alleged--in the raiding upon and blackmailing of certain wandering herdsmen, belonging to a weaker clan. The British official found him guilty, and sentenced him to a term of imprisonment, a terrible punishment to the free, wild man of the deserts and mountains. The manner in which this one received the penalty to which he was doomed was characteristic. His eyes blazed, and, his features working with demoniacal fury, he spat forth a volume of curses and threats. "What does he say?" inquired the Political Agent. The interpreter replied that, apart from calling down all the most forcible anathemas known to the Moslem creed upon the heads of those concerned in his then discomfiture, the substance of the prisoner's declaration was as follows:--The _Sirkar_ [Ruling power, _i.e._, Government] was strong, but those who had borne witness against him were not. Let them beware. He would have ten lives for that day's work. The _Sirkar_ could not shut him up for ever. It could kill him, but there were plenty left--several, even, who heard him that day--who would accept his legacy of vengeance; and the witnesses against him had better go across the wide sea, if haply they might, for no corner of the land wherein they now dwelt was remote enough to hide them from the vengeance of Umar Khan. To this manifesto the Political Agent replied in words of weighty warning. As the prisoner had said, the _Sirkar_ was strong--strong to punish, as he had already discovered. If, on the expiration of his term of imprisonment he continued his evil ways, or made any attempt to fulfil his threat, he would speedily find that there was no corner of the land remote enough to hide him from the vengeance of the _Sirkar_, which in that case would be swift, condign, and terrible--in fact the most terrible that could overtake him, viz: death with ignominy. So Umar Khan duly served his term, and in the fulness of time was released. For a while the authorities kept an eye on him, and all went well. He was in no hurry, this wild, brooding, vindictive mountaineer. He employed his period of enforced quietude in secretly locating every one of those who had borne witness against him, and when the surveillance over his movements had relaxed, he became as good as his word. One night he started for some of the objects of his feud, and, taking them by surprise, killed three. Two more he found in a neighbouring village, and these also felt the weight of his _tulwar_. But now things grew too lively. With half of his account of vengeance settled, Umar Khan found himself forced to flee, unless he were prepared to forego--and that forever--the other half. So flee he did, both fast and far, hotly pursued by the Political Agent and a strong posse of Levy sowars. Now, the said Political was a staff corps man who had seen some service, and, moreover a very energetic and zealous official; consequently, he allowed the fugitive no more start than he could help, with the result that the latter had no time to collect any following so as to afford him the satisfaction of selling his life dearly. So day and night fled Umar Khan; but turn and double as he would, the avenging force pressed him hard, for the Levy sowars were men of the country, and knew all the twists and turns of the mountains as well as he did; and their commander was a seasoned campaigner, and as hard as nails. However, fortune favoured him, and the hunted man succeeded in reaching a place of refuge and of safety--as he thought. As he thought! For, persistent as bloodhounds, that avenging band held steadily upon his track. Finally they came up with him. Umar Khan was in a tent asleep. Stealthily the pursuers drew up in crescent formation, and their commander summoned Umar to come forth. For a moment there was dead silence. Then swift as thought, a rifle muzzle was poked through the flap of the tent. A loud report, and a bullet sang past the official's ear. The latter, more than ever bent on securing his prisoner alive, reiterated the summons, with the alternative in the event of noncompliance, of ordering a volley to be fired into the tent. The reply came as before, in the shape of another bullet, which this time killed the horse of one of the sowars. The order was given to fire. The rattle and smoke of the volley rolled away--and lo! the sides of the tent were riddled like a sieve. There was a moment or two of silence, and again the officer challenged any who might be left alive to come forth. There emerged from the tent door, a figure clad in the full voluminous draperies and close veil of an Afghan woman. She did not even look at the troop. She fled away over the plain as fast as her legs could carry her, uttering shrill screams. Those who looked on were filled with wild amaze. How could any living thing have escaped that volley? A movement made to pursue her was simultaneously checked, and then the Political Agent and some of the sowars entered the tent, but cautiously. Their caution in this instance was unnecessary. One human being alone was in that tent--lying on the ground in a pool of blood. Such rude furniture and utensils as there were had been riddled, and the ground itself ploughed up with bullets. The human figure was limp and lifeless, and--it was that of another woman. An idea struck the official. He leaped outside the tent; his gaze directed at the fast fleeing figure, now some distance away. He--and those present--saw it drag out a horse from among the rocks and stones of a dry nullah, and, flinging off the female attire, spring upon the animal's back. Then darting forth a hand with defiant gesture, and hurling back a final curse and menace, the fugitive--a wiry, muscular male--flogged his steed into a furious gallop, and was speedily out of range of the hurried volley sent after him. The officer stared, and, we fear, cursed. The Levy sowars stared, and certainly invoked Allah and his Prophet; while laughing at both, yet storing up deeper vengeance for the slaughter of one of his most faithful wives--who had shared and aided his flight, and eventually laid down her life for him--fled Umar Khan far over the plains of Afghanistan--further and further into that welcome land of refuge. There lay the rub. They dare not pursue him further. Already a violation of international law had been committed in carrying the pursuit thus far. Well might the official feel foolish. That their bird should be allowed to skip off right under their very noses in the garb of the supposed female whom they had so very humanely spared was enough to make him feel foolish. But he was destined to feel more so subsequently, when an acrid representation from the Amir of Kabul entailed upon him a Departmental wigging, although but a technical one. After all, a man may be too zealous. After that Umar Khan disappeared for a while. The Amir of Kabul, when mildly requested to hand him over, declined crustily, on the ground that an armed force had pursued a fugitive over his border without so much as a by-your-leave. If the English attempted to police his country and failed, he was not going to step in where they left off. So the years went by, and Umar Khan was lost sight of and forgotten. Then, suddenly, he reappeared in his old haunts. Changes of administration had supervened. The Government did not care to bother itself over a man who had been a desperate outlaw under its predecessors, as long as he behaved himself and showed a disposition to amend the error of his ways. Moreover, he was a member of one of the most powerful and turbulent tribes in Baluchistan. The _Sirkar_ concluded to let sleeping dogs lie. So it shut its eyes, and Umar Khan was left in peace. In peace? Yes, so far as he was concerned. But he fixed his dwelling among the wildest and most impracticable of mountain deserts--always ensuring for himself a safe retreat--and thence he began to prey upon all and any who had the wherewithal to pay up smartly for further immunity. Then complaints began to reach Shalalai. Peaceable _banyas_ had been plundered of all the gains they had made during a travelling trade. Merchants on a larger scale trading with Kabul had been relieved on a proportionate scale, or even held to ransom. Umar Khan adopted a method of his own for putting a stop to the complaints of such. It was the method best expressed by the saw, "Dead men tell no tales"--and by way of doing the thing thoroughly, he seized the whole of the plunder instead of merely the half as heretofore, but took care that the owner should not be on hand to lay any complaint. And leaving out many other unchronicled misdeeds, we think we have said enough to establish our opening statement, viz: that Umar Khan was a Baluchi who bore a very bad record indeed. He was not a sirdar, nor even a malik. He was, in fact, a nobody, who-- as not unfrequently happens among barbarian races--had raised himself to a sort of sinister eminence by a daring fearlessness and a combination of shrewdness and luck in evading the consequences of his countless acts of aggression. Added to this, his enforced outlawry and the exploits, half mythical, wherewith rumour credited him during that period, had thrown a kind of halo around him in the eyes of his wild, predatory fellow-tribesmen. Nominally he lived under and was responsible to the Sirdar Yar Hussain Khan, who was chief over a large section of the powerful Marri tribe; actually he was responsible to nobody in the wide world. His own particular following was made up of all the "tough" characters of the tribe, which is saying much, for the Marris bore the reputation of numbering in their midst some very "tough" characters. The saw relative to the endowment of anybody with a sufficiency of rope was beginning to hold good in the matter of Umar Khan. Things were going badly with him. He had been obliged to be more than liberal with his ill-gotten gains in order to retain the adherence of his following, and the shoe was beginning to pinch. Then his tribal chief had given him a hint to sit tight; in short, had given him two alternatives-- either to behave himself or clear out. He had about concluded to embrace the latter of these--and the motive which had led him up to this conclusion was dual--and akin to that which tells with like effect upon men far more civilised than the Baluchi ex-outlaw. Umar Khan was hard up; likewise he was hipped. He was perfectly sick of sitting still. Times were too peaceful altogether. So he sold what few possessions he had left, and with the proceeds laid in a stock of Snider rifles and ammunition. Umar Khan sat in his village at sunrise. It was the hour of prayer, and several of the faithful, dotted about, were devoutly prostrating themselves, in the most approved fashion; indeed Umar himself had only just finished the performance of his devotions, for your Moslem is a logician in such matters, and has no idea of heaping up great damnation to himself by committing two sins instead of one, as would be the case were he to omit the prescribed devotion simply because he had just cut somebody's throat. The low, flat, mud-walled houses were in keeping with the surroundings--looking indeed as if they had but been dumped down and left to dry, like other piles of earth and stones which had rolled down the arid slopes and remained where they fell. A flock of black goats and fat-tailed sheep, mingled together, was scattered over the plain, though where they could find sustenance in such a desert, Heaven alone knew. Camels, too, were stalking around, also making what seemed an ironical attempt at browsing. The sun had just risen beyond the far off limit of the desert plain, tinging blood-red the line of jagged peaks shooting skyward behind the village. Umar Khan sat in gloomy silence, smoking a narghileh, and, like most Orientals, indulging in much expectoration. His grim, hawk-like face, with the shaggy hanging brows meeting over his hooked nose, looked more cruel and repulsive than ever, as he stroked his beard, or pulled at the long black tresses, which hung down on each side of his face. Then he looked up. A fellow-tribesman was coming towards him. Umar Khan's glance now lit up with animation. The man came to him and sat down. Their talk was short, but the ex-outlaw's expression of countenance grew positively radiant, as the new arrival went on unfolding his tidings. Umar Khan rose and ordered his best horse to be saddled. As he rose, it might have been noticed that he suffered from a slight limp. Then taking with him seven other spirits more wicked than himself--if that were possible--he rode forth. For many hours they fared onward, avoiding the more frequented ways, and travelling over precipitous mountain path and through wild _tangi_, by routes well known to themselves, halting at convenient places to rest and water their horses. All had rifles, as well as their curved tulwars, and this savage band of hook-nosed, scowling copper-coloured ruffians, armed to the teeth, looked about as forbidding, even terror striking a crew as the peaceable wayfarer would _not_ wish to meet--say half way through a _tangi_ where there was precious little room to pass each other. The sun was now considerably past the meridian, and at length the band, at a word from Ihalil Mohammed--the man who had brought the news which had led to this undertaking--halted amid some rock overlooking a broad high-road. Far away along its dusty length a speck appeared, growing larger as it drew rapidly nearer, until it took the shape of a vehicle, containing but one man, and he the driver. It was an ordinary "gharri," or hackney cab. To meet this Ihalil and four others now rode down. "Salaam, brother," they exclaimed, drawing up across the road. "Salaam, Sirdar sahib," returned the driver, in tremulous tones, turning pale at the sight of these fierce armed figures barring his way. The man was an ordinary specimen of the low caste Hindu, and as such held in utter contempt by these stalwart sons of the desert, and in repulsion as a heathen and an idolater. "Who art thou, brother; and whither faring?" queried Ihalil. The man replied, in quaking tones, that he was but a poor "gharri-wallah" hired to meet a certain holy _mullah_ who was travelling from Shalalai to a village away far out in the desert. He was to bring him on a stage of his journey, and expected to meet him not far from that point. "Good. Now turn thine old box on wheels out of the road and follow to where we shall lead thee," commanded Ihalil. The poor wretch dared not so much as hesitate, and presently the rickety old rattle trap was drawn up behind the rocks. At sight of the rest of the band the miserable Hindu gave himself up for dead. "Salaam, Sirdar sahib," he faltered, cowering before the grim stare of Umar Khan. The latter then questioned him, in process of which one of the freebooters stole up behind, his tulwar raised. The badly scared "gharri-wallah," his eyes starting from his head, had no attention to spare from the threatening scowl and searching questions of Umar Khan; and of danger from behind was utterly unconscious. Then, at a nod from Umar Khan, down came the tulwar upon the neck of the doomed Hindu. It was badly aimed and did not sever the head, but cut far and deep into the neck and shoulder. The miserable wretch fell to the ground, deluged with a great spout of blood, but yet wailing dismally in agony and terror. In a moment two more tulwars swung through the air, and the sufferings of the murdered man--literally cut to pieces--were over, though his limbs still beat the ground in convulsive struggles. Umar Khan spat in derision, while the other barbarians laughed like demons over this atrocious deed. The murderers wiped their swords on the garments of their victim, and examined the keenly-ground edges solicitously, lest they should be in any way notched or turned. But now their attention was diverted. Another speck was growing larger and larger on the road, this time advancing from the direction in which their late victim had been proceeding. Drawing nearer it soon took shape. Another "gharri" similar to the one whose driver they had slaughtered. The whole band rode down to meet it. Besides the driver it contained another man. "Peace, my sons," said the latter as they drew up. "And on you peace," returned Umar Khan. "But first--for this dog. Hold--Alight, both of ye." There was that about the aspect of these armed brigands that would admit of no hesitation. Both obeyed. This driver, too, was a low caste Hindu. His "fare" was an old man, white-bearded, and wearing a green turban. No sooner were both fairly out of the "gharri," than Ihalil Mohammed rode at the Hindu and cut him down. Others fell upon him with their tulwars, and the miserable wretch, like his fellow-craftsman, was literally hewn to pieces then and there. With savage shouts the murderers waved their bloodstained weapons aloft, curvetting their steeds around the survivor. The latter turned pale. Quick as thought, however, he had drawn a volume of the Koran from beneath his garments, and placed it upon his head. "La illah il Allah"--he began. "--Mohammed er rasool Allah," [Note 2] chorused the blood thirsty savages, as though in one fierce war shout, turning to hack once more at the mangled carcase of the miserable Hindu. "Hearken, my father," said Umar Khan, pointing his rifle at the traveller. "A true believer is safe at the hands of other believers. But, father, delay not to deliver over the seven hundred rupees which are in thy sash." The other turned paler still. "Seven hundred rupees?" he exclaimed, holding up his hands. "What should a poor _mullah_ do with such a sum?" "Thou hast said it, my father. What indeed?" sneered Umar Khan. "What indeed, save as alms for the poor, and the debtors and the insolvent, as enjoins the holy Koran? And such thou seest before thee. Wherefore we will receive them, father, and pray the blessing of Allah, and a rich place in the seventh heaven for thee and thine." "Do ye not fear God, O impious ones, that ye would rob His servant?" said the _mullah_, waxing wroth in his desperation. "We fear nobody," returned Umar Khan, with an evil sneer. "Yet, my father, delay not any longer, lest this gun should go off by accident." "Wah--wah!" sighed the _mullah_. "Be content my children--it may be ye are poorer than I. Receive this packet, and the blessing of a servant of the Prophet go with it. And now I will proceed upon my way." "Wait but a few moments," replied Umar Khan, receiving the bag which the other tendered him, and which he immediately handed to Ihalil with one word--"Count!" "It may not be, for the hour of evening prayer draws near. Peace be with you, my children." And he made as though to move on. "We will say it together then," replied Umar Khan, barring the way. "What is this? Two hundred and fifty rupees? Two more packets hast thou forgotten, my father, and--delay not, for the hour of evening prayer draws near." There was a grim, fell significance in the speaker's tone and countenance. The _mullah_ no longer hesitated. With almost trembling alacrity he drew forth the remaining bags, which being counted, were found to contain the exact sum named. "We give thee five rupees as an alms, my father," said Umar Khan, tendering him that amount. Gloomily the _mullah_ pocketed it. "And surely God is good to thee, that in these days thou hast been able to relieve the necessities of Umar Khan." A start of surprise came over the face of the other, at the mention of the name of the dreaded ex-outlaw. He had more than a shrewd suspicion that but for his sacred office he would be now even as his Hindu driver--which went far to console him for the loss of his substance. "Wah--wah!" he moaned, sitting down by the roadside. "My hard earned substance which should comfort my old age--all gone! all gone!" "The faithful will provide for thine old age, my father. And now, peace be with thee, for we may not tarry here. But,"--sinking his voice to a bloodcurdling whisper--"it is well to give alms in secret, for he who should boast too loud of having bestowed them upon Umar Khan, not even the holy sanctuary of Mecca would avail to shelter him." "Blaspheme not, my son," cried the _mullah_, affecting great horror, and putting his fingers to his ears--though, as a matter of fact, the warning was one which he thoroughly understood. They left him seated there by the roadside, despondent over his loss. They left the two mangled bodies of their victims to the birds and beasts of prey, and gave vent to their glee as they dashed off, in shouts and blood thirsty witticisms. They were in high good humour, those jovial souls. They had slain a couple of human beings--that was to keep their hands in. They had robbed another of seven hundred rupees--that would replenish the wasted exchequer for a time; and now they cantered off to see if they could not do a little more in both lines--and the goal for which they were heading was the Kachin valley. Umar Khan had burnt his boats behind him. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. To lend additional terror to capital punishment in the eyes of Moslems on the northern border, the dead bodies of those executed for fanatical murder were sometimes burned. Note 2. "God is the God of gods--Mohammed the Prophet of God."--The Moslem confession of faith. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. EXPERIMENTAL. The days had gone by, and now Campian was installed in the forest bungalow. Colonel Jermyn's invitation had gone forth, but the missive which would have counteracted it had not, so here he was. Not without some deliberation had he decided on accepting it. He had thought himself safe; had reckoned he had safely parted with all illusions, as conducive only to disturbance and anxiety, and the greatest of all illusions was Vivien Wymer. But the sudden and unlooked for reappearance of the latter had reopened a wound. Yet why? She was the same as before. She had failed him once. She had sacrificed him to others once, and would of course do so again unhesitatingly. Why not? There was no such thing as love as they two had once looked at it--had once imagined it. A mere illusion; pleasant while it lasted, painful when its illusoriness became evident. But then the wrench, though painful, even agonising, was over--and in its effect salutary. Five years make a difference in a man's life. He had not been young then; he was older now. Sensibility was blunted. The capacity for self-torment was no longer his. Love, the ever endurable! He had believed in that once. He was no misogynist, even now. His experience of the other sex had been considerable. He was ready to accord the members thereof the possession of many delightful qualities. As friends they were staunch, as companions unrivalled. Life unbrightened by feminine presence and feminine influences would be a dull affair. But as exponents of Love, the ever endurable, they were a failure; and exactly as he came to appreciate this did he come to appreciate the other sex the more because he had ceased to expect too much. His experiences had been many and varied, and took in all types of the softer sex, and he had found them wonderfully similar. The fire and passion of to-day became chill and indifference a year hence. Then Vivien Wymer had come into his life, and lo, all was changed. Here was a glorious exception to the rather soulless rule. She met his every want; she appealed to him as he could never have believed any woman could, and by some strange, magnetic instinct, his own personality appealed to hers. They seemed made for each other--and yet--he had been sacrificed. Not even there was he to be all in all--to be first and everything. They had seen each other again once since that chance meeting in the markhor cave. The colonel and his niece had ridden over to Upward's camp to tiffin, and it was on that occasion that the hearty old soldier had pressed him to come and pay them a visit. He had not even glanced at Vivien, striving to read to what extent she would second the invitation, but had accepted on the spot, yet not without a mental reservation. For there was one point which he desired to debate within himself, and that was the very one which had occurred to Vivien. How could they two be together under the same roof, in close, daily intercourse as mere acquaintances, they two who had been so much to each other? How could they bear the strain, how keep up the _role_? Then when his meditations had reached this point, a strange exultant thrill seemed to disturb the balance of his clearer judgment. Why should the _role_ be kept up? After being parted for five years, they had met again--nay, more--had been thrown together again in this strange, wild country, that in former times had been to either of them no more than a mere geographical name. Both were unchanged. There was a softening in Vivien's voice, when off her guard, as on the last occasion of their meeting, which seemed to point to the fact that she was. For himself--well, he had grown older, wiser--and, he imagined, harder. Still, the wound did seem to be reopening. Why, the whole was almost as though Fate had gone out of her way to bring they two together again. Yes, he had grown harder. Love, the ever endurable! Ridiculous! She had sacrificed him before, and would do so again if occasion arose. If she did not do so it would be because occasion had not arisen, and this consideration constituted a state of potential unreliability, which was not reassuring. The idea even served to re-awaken much of the old bitterness and rankling resentment, and he decided that it would be an interesting, if coldblooded, study in character to observe how Vivien herself would come out under such an ordeal as the close, intimate intercourse which life beneath the same roof could not but involve. Once there, he had no cause to regret his decision. The colonel was a fine old soldier of the very best type. Most of his life had been spent in India, and he was full of anecdote and reminiscence. He had served through the Mutiny, and in several frontier disturbances, and his knowledge of the country and its natives was intelligent and exhaustive. He had been a sportsman, too, in his time--and, in short, was a man whom it was a pleasure to talk with. He and Campian took to each other immensely, and the two would sit together under the verandah of an evening, smoking their cheroots and exchanging ideas, while Vivien discoursed music through the open doors, upon a cottage piano which had been lugged up, at some risk to its tuning and general anatomy, on board the hideous necessary camel. Decidedly it was very close quarters, indeed, this party of three, isolated there in that remote forest bungalow, away among the chaotic, piled up mountain deserts of wild Baluchistan; but there was no element of monotony about it; indeed, how could there be when to two out of the three life thus represented an ordeal that meant so much, that might mean indeed so much more. Yet it spoke volumes for the self control of both that no suspicion should have entered the mind of the third that they had ever beheld each other elsewhere, and under very near circumstances. Their intercourse was free and unrestrained, but it was the easy intercourse of two people who had ideas in common and liked each other's society, and totally devoid of any symptom of covering a warmer feeling. They would frequently take rides or walks together through the juniper forest, or to some point overlooking a new or wider view of the great chaotic mountain waste, and it spoke volumes for their self control that no allusion was ever made to the past. They would not have been human if occasionally some undercurrent of feeling had not now and then come unguardedly near the surface, but only to be instantly repressed. It was as though both were engaged in a diplomatic game requiring a high degree of skill, and in which each was watching the next move of the other with a jealous eye. Once, in course of their rides together, the two were threading a _tangi_, and the sense of being shut within those high rock walls moved Vivien to broach the subject of the adventure which had so nearly ended in tragedy for her companion and his. "It must have been a dreadful experience," she said, looking up at the cliffs overhead. "Yes. It was awkward. I've no use for a repetition of it." His tone was discouraging, as though he would fain have changed the subject. But she seemed to cling to it. "I think that was a splendid feat," she went on, looking straight at him. "I wish I knew what it was like never to be afraid." "So do I--most heartily. But I simply don't believe in the existence of that enviable state; if you can talk of the existence of a negative, that is." "But you do know what it is. Were you ever afraid of anything in your life?" The very words Nesta had used. Then he had not taken them in a complimentary sense. He had thought the remark a foolish one. Now coming from this woman, who had idealised him--who did still--with her wide luminous eyes turned full upon his face, and that unguarded softening which had again crept into her tone, there was a subtle flattery in it which was delicious, but enervating. As a matter of fact he really thought nothing of the feat, beyond what a lucky thing it was they should have been able to save both their lives. He answered so shortly as to seem ungracious. "Very much and very often. I would rather run away than fight any day. Fact." "I don't believe you." "No? People don't, I find. Some day I may do that very thing--then when everybody is howling me down I can always turn round and say--`I told you so, and you wouldn't believe me.'" "But do you want them to believe you?" "Why, of course. You don't know me at all, Vivien, even now." Then, as if to hurry away from a dangerous slip. "By the by, I never can understand the insane way in which even civilised and thinking people elect to deify what they call courage or pluck. There is no such thing really. It is purely a matter of opportunity or temperament--in short, sheer accident. To get out of a tight place a man has got to do something. While doing it he has no time to think. If he had, in nine cases out of ten he'd run away." "Yes? And what about when he has to go into a tight place?" "Why, then he's got to go. And as a matter of fact it is funk that drives him in. The opprobrium and possibly material penalty, he would incur by backing out constitute the more formidable alternative of the two. So of the two evils man, being essentially a self preserving animal, instinctively chooses the least." "Plausible, but not convincing," returned Vivien, with a laugh. "And is there not something of what they call a `crank' underlying that philosophy?" "`They' are apt to say that of any application of the principles of common sense,"--"as I have so often told you before," he was nearly adding. "Was Miss Cheriton very much scared that day? She says she'll never get over it as long as she lives." "Poor little girl. It must have been a ghastly experience. She behaved very well; was no more scared than any other woman would have been, and a good deal less so than some." "What a pretty girl she is." "Very--of her type." Vivien was conscious of two emotions--swift, simultaneous as a lightning flash; first a pang over the readiness with which he endorsed her remark, then a heartbeat of relief, for those three words constituted a whole saving clause. "You must have seen a great deal of her?" No sooner uttered than Vivien would have given anything to recall the remark. What construction would he put upon it other than jealousy of this blue-eyed, golden-haired girl, who had several years of youth the advantage over herself? "That depended upon circumstances. Nesta Cheriton has a great _penchant_ for the British Army, and the British Army thoroughly reciprocates the predilection. While the British Army was represented at Chirria Bach I saw not much of her, over and above the occasions when one had to meet in ordinary life. While it was unrepresented she seemed to make herself equally happy in going chikor shooting with me. On the whole, I rather like the little girl. She is bright and amusing, and acts, I suppose, as a passing tonic to one's jaded and middle-aged spirits." His tone had been that of absolute and unaffected ease, and now it occurred to him suddenly, and for the first time, that Vivien was putting him through something of a catechism. The moral dissection which he had promised himself in risking a sojourn beneath the same roof with her had already begun, and this was only a phase of it. At such times the old feeling of rankling bitterness would come upon him, and with it a wave of desolation and heart-emptiness. Why had she failed him--she his destined counterpart? Why had she proved so weak under a not very strong ordeal? He had indeed become hard, when he could go through day after day in closest companionship with her, and yet keep on the mask, never once be betrayed into letting down his guard. One consideration had acted as a salutary cold douche in the event of the smouldering fires of his nature rising too near their restraining rock crust. One day Vivien was telling him all about her uncle and how she came to be keeping house for him. She had done so since her aunt's death, and supposed she would go on doing so. He was such a dear old man, she said--so thoughtful and kind and unselfish, and he had no one to look after him but her. All of which her listener, even from his short opportunity of observation, was inclined to endorse; but the sting lay in the concluding consideration, for it recalled that other time. In it had lain the pretext for sacrificing him to an imaginary duty. He was not going to risk a repetition of what he had then undergone. The iron entered deeper and deeper. Once an incident occurred which nearly availed to shatter and melt it. Vivien had gone into his room during his absence, as she frequently did, to see if there was not some little touch she could add to its comfort or attractiveness. An object on his table caught her attention. She picked it up and examined it, and her eyes filled. Yet it was only an old tobacco pouch, and a very worn and weather-beaten one at that--so worn and frayed that hardly more than a few threads of the original embroidery still hung to the cover. Then she did an extraordinary thing. Instead of replacing it she took it away with her. That night she sat up late, and lo, in the course of the day, going into his room Campian found that the old battered pouch for which he had hunted high and low was replaced by a beautiful new one, the embroidery of which was a perfect work of art. "Why did you take so much trouble?" he said when next they met. "You could not have known I had lost the other." "Is that why we were so glum last night?" she returned, a glad light, struggling with a mischievous one, in her eyes. "Never mind. This is a much better one." "I loved that one. I would give a great deal to recover it, as you ought to know." "Wait a moment." She left him and returned almost immediately. "Here it is--or what is left of it. Now--? What will you give?" She held it out to him--then drew it back. Her eyes were raised to his. Her voice was soft and caressing as ever he had heard it in the old days. Just one of those trivial accidents bringing about the most crucial moment in two lives--when, as usual, the most trivial of causes availed utterly to mar its effect. That most trivial of causes was the voice of Colonel Jermyn, followed by the entrance of its jolly possessor. "Here's the _dak_ just come from Upward. They're all going back to Shalalai the day after to-morrow Campian, and want to know if you've had enough of us yet. If you have they say they are leaving early and you'd better be down at the camp to-morrow night. If you haven't--why--all the better for us." "The point is whether you haven't had enough of me, Colonel." But while he made the laughing remark his glance travelled round to Vivien's face. It was one of those moments when her guard was down. The interruption had come so inopportunely. Decidedly the study he had promised himself was bearing rich results. "Pooh! Of course we haven't. Why, you've only just come. Besides, you can get to Shalalai at any time. That's settled then. But I have an idea. We might go down to Mehriab station and see them off. There are some things I am getting up, and that idiot of a Babu in charge can't send an intelligent answer to any question I write him. It's not a bad sort of ride down there, and we'll kill two birds with one stone. What do you say, Viv?" "I beg to second it, Uncle Edward. The idea is an extremely good one." To him who watched it, while not seeming to, there was an entire revelation in Vivien's face during that momentary lifting of the veil. She was as anxious to prolong the time as--he was. Yes, that is what it amounted to. The experiment, from its coldblooded side, seemed to have failed. "We shall be up here some weeks longer, Campian"--went on the Colonel--"but of course if you have to go, it is easy enough to get to Shalalai. Meanwhile my boy, as long as you can make yourself happy here we are only too glad." "Oh, I can do that all right, Colonel. And I'm not tied to time in any way either." Again that relieved look on Vivien's face. Some weeks! What might not be the result of those weeks was the thought that was in the minds of both of them? What might not transpire within those weeks? Ah, if they had only known. "By the way there's another item of _kubbar_ in Upward's letter," went on the Colonel, fumbling for that missive. "A _budmash_ named Umar Khan has started out on a Ghazi expedition down Sukkaf way. He and several others rode out along the road and cut down a couple of poor devils of gharri-wallahs. Killed 'em dead as a door nail. There was a _mullah_ in one of the gharris, and they plundered him. He got out a Koran and put it on his head--singing out that he was a _mullah. `Mullah_ or not,' says Umar Khan--`hand out those seven hundred rupees you've got on board.' And he had to hand them out. Sacrilegious scamps--ha, ha! But if he hadn't been a _mullah_ they'd have cut him up too. Well these _budmashes_ will have to swing for it. They'll soon be run to earth. Nice country this, eh, Campian?" "Rather. It seems to me only half conquered, and not that." "Yes. It's run at a loss entirely. A mere buffer State. We hold it on the principle of grabbing as much as we can and sticking to it, all the world over--and in this particular instance putting as much as we can between the Russians and India." "And what if Umar Khan is not speedily run to earth?" "Oh, then he'll knock around a bit and make things generally unpleasant. Do a little dacoity from time to time. But we are bound to bone him in the long run." "There's an uncommonly queer closeness in the air this evening," said the Colonel as they were sitting out under the verandah a little later. "As if there was a storm of sorts working up. Yet there's no sign of thundercloud anywhere. Don't you notice it, Vivien?" "I think so. It has a dispiriting effect on one, as if something was going to happen." The sun had gone down in a lurid haze, which was not cloud, and the jagged peaks of the opposite range were suffused in a hot, vaporous afterglow, while the dark depth of juniper forest in the deep, narrow valley seemed very far down indeed. What little air there was came in warm puffs. "We all seem rather _chup_ this evening," said the Colonel. "Viv, how would it be to play us something lively to wake us up?" She rose and went inside. Campian could still see her as she sat at the piano, rattling off Gilbert and Sullivan at their liveliest. He could continue the very favourite occupation in which he had been indulging-- that of simply watching her--noting every movement, the turn of the head, the droop of the eyelids, the sweet and perfect grace which characterised her most trivial act. This woman was simply perfect in his sight--his ideal. Yet to all outward intent they were on the easy, friendly terms of two people who merely liked each other and no more. "Come and have a `peg,' Campian," said the Colonel presently. "No thanks--not just now." "Well, I'm going to," and away he went to the dining room. Then Campian, sitting there, was conscious of a very strange and startling phenomenon. There was a feeling as though the world were falling away from beneath his feet, together with a dull rumble. There was a clatter of glass and table ornaments in the drawing room, and he could see Vivien sway and nearly fall from the music-stool. He sprang to his feet to rush to her aid, and seemed hardly able to preserve his own balance. Both staggering they met in the doorway. "Oh, Howard, what is it?" she cried, seizing in both of hers the hand which he had stretched out to help her. "Quick. Come outside," was all he said. They were able to walk now, and he drew her outside the verandah, right into the open. Then again came that cavernous rumble, and the earth fairly reeled beneath their feet. "That's what all this heaviness in the air has been about," he said, as the ground felt firm again. "A shock of earthquake." "Is it over? Will there be any more?" she gasped, her white face and dilated eyes turned up to his. She still held his hands, in her sudden terror, casting all considerations of conventionality to the winds. "I don't think so," he answered, a very tremble of tenderness in his voice as he strove to reassure her. "These shocks generally go in twos or threes, like waves. And even if there are any more we are all right outside." Here the humorous element asserted itself, in the shape of Colonel Jermyn choking and coughing in the verandah. In his hand he held a tall tumbler, nearly empty. "Look at this, Campian," he cried. "A man can't even have a `peg' in his own house without the whole world rising up against it. Flinging it in his face, and half choking him, by George." "Some awful big teetotaler must have gone below, Colonel, to raise racket enough to knock your `peg' out of your hand. I hope you'll take warning and forswear `pegs.'" "Ha, ha! Well, Viv? Badly scared, child?" She laughed, but the colour had not yet come back to her cheeks. "I predicted something was going to happen, didn't I?" she said. "And it has happened--and now there's another thing going to happen, and that is dinner, so we'd better go inside and begin to think about it. What? Is it safe? Of course, though, my dear, I don't wonder at it if you were a little scared. It's an experience that is apt to be alarming at first." The while the speaker was chuckling to himself. He had been a witness both by ear and eye to the foregoing scene, having overheard Vivien's alarmed apostrophe. "So? It has come to that, has it?" he was saying to himself. "`Howard,' indeed? But how dark they've kept it. Well, well. They're both of them old enough to look after themselves. `Howard,' indeed!" and the jolly Colonel chuckled to himself, as with kindly eyes he watched the pair that evening, reading their easy unrestrained intercourse in an entirely new light. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. THE TRAGEDY AT MEHRIAB. Mehriab station, on the Shalalai line of railway, was situated amid about as wild, desolate and depressing surroundings as the human mind could possibly conceive. A narrow treeless plain--along which the track lay, straight as a wall-- shut in by towering arid mountains, rising to a great height, cleft here and there by a chasm overhung by beetling cliffs--black, frowning and forbidding. At the lower end of the plain rose sad-hued mud humps, streaked with gypsum. There was nothing to relieve the eye, no speck of vivid green standing out from the parched aridity prevailing; but on the other hand all was on a vast scale, and the little station and rest-house looked but a tiny toy planted there beneath the stupendous sweep of those towering hills. In the latter of the buildings aforesaid, a tolerably lively party was assembled, discussing tiffin, or rather having just finished discussion of the same. It had been done picnic fashion, and the room was littered with plates, and knives and forks, and lunch baskets, and paper, and all the accompaniments of an itinerant repast. "Have another `peg,' Campian," Upward was saying. "No? Sure? You will, Colonel? That's right. We've plenty of time. No hurry whatever. Hazel, don't kick up such a row, or you'll have to go outside. Miss Wymer, don't let them bother you. What was I saying just now?" He took up the thread of what he had been saying, and in a moment he and the Colonel were deep in reminiscences of _shikar_. Vivien and Nesta had risen and were strolling outside, and there Campian joined them. The _dak_ bungalow extended its accommodation to travelling natives, for whom there was a department opposite. Camels--some standing, some kneeling, but all snarling--filled the open space in front of this, and wild looking Baluchis in their great white turbans and loose garments were squatting around in groups, placidly chatting, or standing alone in melancholy silence. "Look at this!" said Campian. "It makes quite a picture, taken against the background of that loop-holed mud wall, with the great sweep of mountain rising behind." Several camels, some ready laden, some not, were kneeling. On one a man was adjusting its load. He was a tall, shaggy, hook-nosed black bearded ruffian, who from time to time cast a sidelong, malevolent glance at the lookers on as he continued his work. In business-like manner he proceeded to adjust each bale and package, then when all was complete, he lifted from the ground a Snider carbine and hung it by its ring to a hook on the high wooden pack saddle. Then he took up his curved sword; but this he secured to the broad sabretache over his shoulder. "Isn't that a picture in itself?" went on Campian. "Why, adequately reproduced it would bring back the whole scene--the roaring of the camels, the midday glow, the burning heat of this arid hole. I wonder who they are by the way"--for others who had similarly accoutred their camels were jerking the animals up, and preparing for the start. Vivien turned to Bhallu Khan who was just behind, and translated his answer. "He says they are Brahuis from the Bolan side, going further in." "Why are they all armed like that? Don't they trust their own people?" "He says they may have heard that Umar Khan is on the warpath, and they are not of his tribe. Nobody knows who anybody is who is not of his tribe--meaning that he doesn't trust them." It was something of a contrast to turn from these scowling, brigandish looking wayfarers, to the beaming, benevolent, handsome countenance of the old forest guard. They strolled around a little more, then voted it too hot, and returned to the welcome coolness of the _dak_ bungalow. Campian, always analytical, was conscious of a change, or rather was it a development? Now that they were together--in a crowd--as he put it to himself, there was a certain feeling of proprietary right that seemed to assert itself in his relations with Vivien. It was something akin to the feeling which was over him in the old time when they moved about together. And yet, why? Well, the close intimate intercourse of the last ten days or so had not been without its effect. Not without an inward thrill either, could he recognise that this intercourse had but begun. They were returning together, and to be candid with himself that hot stifling arid afternoon here on one of the wildest spots on earth's surface, he could not but recognise that this elation was very real, very exhilarating indeed. "I think we'd better stroll quietly up to the station," said Upward, as they re-entered. "We may as well have plenty of time to get all this luggage weighed and put right." Then relapsing into the vernacular: "Khola, you know what goes in and what has to be weighed." "_Ha, Huzoor_," assented the bearer. "Then get away on ahead and do it." The rest-house was about half a mile distant from the station. On the way to the latter Campian found himself riding beside Nesta Cheriton. "You don't seem elated over the prospect of returning to Shalalai," he said. "Five thousand of the British Army--horse, foot, and artillery! Just think what that represents in the shape of its heroic leaders, Nessita--and yet you are just as _chup_ as if you were coming away from it all." "Oh, don't bother--just at the last, too," retorted the girl, almost petulantly. "Besides--that joke is becoming rather stale." "Is it? So it is. So sorry. What about that other joke--is it stale too? The one time you ever took anybody seriously. Won't you tell me now, Nessie?" "No, I won't," she said, this time quite petulantly. "Come along. We are a long way behind." "Then you will tell me when next we meet, in Shalalai in a week or two." "No, I won't. And look here--I don't want to hear any more about it." Then, with apparent inconsequence--"It was mean of you to desert us like that. You might just as well have put off your stay up there until now." They had reached the station and were in the crowd again by now. And there was somewhat of a crowd on the platform. Long-haired Baluchis, all wearing their curved swords, stood about in threes and fours; chattering Hindus with their womenkind, squatting around upon their bundles and packages; a native policeman in Khaki uniform armed with a Snider rifle--with which he probably could not have hit the traditional haystack--and the joint party with their servants and two or three of the forest guard, constituted quite a crowd on the ordinarily deserted platform; for the arrival of the train--of which there was but one daily each way--was something of an event. Having arranged for the luggage and tickets, Upward was chatting with the stationmaster--a particularly civil, but very ugly Babu from down country--as to the state of the country. The man grinned all over his pockmarked countenance. What would the Sahib have? A Government berth was not one to throw up because it was now and then dangerous, and so many only too eager to jump into it. Umar Khan was not likely to trouble him. Why should he? No defences? No. There was an iron door to the waiting room, loop-holed, but the policeman was the only man armed. Upward proceeded to inspect the said iron door. "Look at this, Colonel," he said. "Just look, and tell me if ever you saw anything more idiotic in all your life. Here's a thick iron door, carefully set up for an emergency, loop-holed and all, but the window is utterly unprotected. Just look at it. And there's no one armed enough to fire through either, except one policeman, who'd be cut down on the first outbreak of disturbance." "You're right, Upward. Why, the window is as open as any English drawing room window. There's a loft though, and an iron ladder. Well, you'd be hard put to it if you were reduced to that." "Rather. That's how we British do things. I'll answer for it the Russians wouldn't. Why, every one of these stations ought to be a young fort in itself. It would be if the Russians had this line. And they'll have it too, one of these days at this rate." And now a vehement ringing of the bell announced the train. On it came, looking, as it slowed down, like a long black centipede, in contrast to the open vastness of Nature; the engine with its cup shaped chimney, vomiting white smoke, its pointed cow-catcher seeming as a living head of the monster. The chattering Hindus were loading up their bundles and hastening to follow; heads of all sorts and colours protruded from the windows, but Mehriab was not a station where passengers often alighted, so none got out now. The Upwards were busy looking after their multifold luggage--and good-byes were being exchanged. "Now, Ernest, get in," called out Mrs Upward. "We are just off." "No hurry. Where's Tinkles? Got her on board?" "Yes, here she is," answered Hazel--hoisting up the little terrier to the window, from which point of vantage it proceeded to snarl valorously at a wretched pariah cur, slinking along the platform. "All right. Well, good-bye, Colonel. Good-bye, Miss Wymer. Campian, old chap, I suppose we'll see you at Shalalai in a week or two. Ta-ta." The train rumbled slowly away, quickening its pace. Our trio stood looking after it, Vivien responding to the frantic waving of handkerchiefs from Lily and Hazel. The train had just disappeared within a deep rift which cut it off from the Mehriab valley like a door. The station master had retired within his office. The Colonel and his niece were in the waiting room collecting their things. Campian, standing outside on the platform, was shielding a match to light a cheroot, when--Heavens! What did this mean? A band of savage looking horsemen came clattering up--ten or a dozen, perhaps--advancing from the open country the other side of the line. They seemed to have sprung out of the earth itself, so sudden was their appearance. All brandished rifles. They dashed straight for the station, springing from their horses at the end of the platform. Then they opened fire on the armed policeman, who was immediately shot dead. The stationmaster ran outside to see what the disturbance was about. He received a couple of bullets the moment he showed himself, and fell, still groaning. Three coolies walking unsuspectingly along the line were the next. A volley laid them low. Then, with wild yells, expressive of mingled fanaticism and blood thirst, the savage Ghazis rushed along the platform waving their naked swords, and looking for more victims. They slashed the wretched Babu to pieces where he lay-- and then seeing that their other victims were not quite dead--rushed upon them, and cut and hacked until there seemed not a semblance of humanity left. Whirling their dripping weapons on high in the bright sun, they looked heavenward, and yelled again in sheer mania as they tore back on to the platform. The whole of this appalling tragedy had been enacted in a mere flash of time; with such lightning celerity indeed, that Campian, standing outside, could hardly realise that it had actually happened. It was a fortunate thing that three or four tall Marris, standing together in a group, happened to be between him and the assassins or he would have received the first volley. Quick to profit by the circumstance, he sprang within the waiting room. "Back, back," he cried, meeting the other two in the doorway. "There's a row on, of sorts, and they are shooting. Help me with the door, Colonel." It was a fortunate circumstance that Upward had called their attention to this means of defence, and that they had all looked at it, and partly tried it. Now it swung to without a hitch--and no sooner had it done so than four of those without flung themselves against it with a savage howl. These were the Marris who had unconsciously been the means of saving Campian's life--and realising that fact, promptly decided to join their Ghazi countrymen, and repair if possible the error. And, indeed, the same held good of the others on the platform. They were there by accident, but, being there, their innate savagery and fanaticism blazed up in response to the maddening slogan of the Ghazis, with whom, almost to a man, they decided to make common cause. If ever a sharp and vivid contrast was to be witnessed it was here. The peaceful, prosaic, commonplace railway station platform of a few moments ago, was now a very hell of raging shaggy demons, yelling with fury and fanatical hate, rolling their eyes around in search of more victims, as they splashed and slipped in the blood of those they had already massacred. Then someone brought news that there were more coolies, hiding for their lives behind a wood pile a little way up the line. With howls of delight, a dozen barbarians started to find some fresh victims, and the defenceless wretches were butchered as they grovelled on the ground and shrieked for mercy. Those left on the platform now got an inspiration. They had killed the Babu in charge, but there would be others. Fired with this idea, they rushed into the station master's office. Nobody! Into an inner room. Still nobody. They were about to turn and leave, when one, more knowing than the rest, noticed that a large chest was standing rather far out from the wall, and that a shower of dust was still falling from the top of it. He looked behind. Just as he suspected. A man was crouching there, and now quickly they hauled him forth. It was the Eurasian telegraph and ticket clerk, who had hoped to hide away and escape. His yellow face was pale with terror, and he shook in every limb at the sight of those fierce faces and blood dripping tulwars. One of the latter was about to descend upon his head, when somebody in authority intervened, and the murderous blade was lowered. "The money--where is it?" said this man in Hindustani. "Give us over the rupees." "You shall have them, Sirdar sahib. Don't let them kill me!" he pleaded, frantic with fear. Then he began fumbling for the safe keys. In his terror he could not find them. "Hurry up, thou son of a pig and a dog!" urged the one who seemed to be the leader; "else will I have thee slain inch by inch, not all at once." The wretched Eurasian went nearly mad with fear at this threat, but just then, by good luck, he found the keys. His hand, however, shook so much he could hardly open the safe. When he did so, it was found to contain less than they had expected. "Where is the remainder, thou son of Shaitan? Quick, lest we flay thee alive, or broil thee on red-hot coals," growled the leader. Frantic with fear, the miserable wretch fumbled wildly everywhere. A few loose rupees, and a bag or two containing no great sum were found, but no more. "And is that all, food for the Evil One? Is that all?" "Quite all, Sirdar sahib." "Good." And, with the word, the barbarian raised his rifle and shot the other dead. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. HARD TERMS. Meanwhile those in the waiting room were doing all they could to make good their position, and that was not much. Their first attempt at forcing an entrance having failed, the four Marris had rushed among their countrymen who had firearms, striving to bring them against the door in force, or rake the room with a volley through the window, but their attention at the time was taken up with other matters, which afforded the beleaguered ones a brief respite. "Non-combatants up here," said Campian, pointing to the ladder and the trap door which has been mentioned. "Isn't that the order, Colonel?" "Yes, certainly. Up you go, Vivien." But Vivien refused to stir. "I can do something at close quarters, too," she said, drawing her revolver. "Give it to me. I've not got mine with me. Now--go upstairs." "I may be of use here. Here's the pistol, though," handing it over. "Will you obey orders, Viv? What sort of a soldier's niece are you?" "Do go," said Campian, looking at her. "Well, I will, then." As she ascended the iron ladder Campian followed her up, under pretext of aiding her. In reality he managed so he should serve to screen her from any shot that might be fired, for the ladder was in full view of the window. "I know why you came up behind me," she whispered as she gained the loft. "It was to shield me in case they fired." Then, before he had time to begin his descent, she bent her head and kissed him, full on the lips. Not a word did he speak as he went down that ladder again. The blood thrilled and tingled through his frame. Not all the fury of fanaticism which spurred the Ghazis on to mania could surpass the exaltation of fearlessness which was upon him as he tried to treasure up the warm sweetness of that kiss--and after five years! "Campian, confound it! We have only a dozen shots among us," growled the Colonel. "What an ass I am to go about without a pistol." "We can do a lot with a dozen shots. And Der' Ali has his tulwar." Der' Ali was the Colonel's bearer, who had been within at the time of the onslaught. He had been a trooper in his master's old regiment, and they had seen service together on more than one occasion. What had become of the two syces and the forest guard, who were outside, they did not then know, for then the whole volume of the savage fanatics came surging up to the door. In their frenzy they fired wild shots at the solid iron plates. "Tell them, Der' Ali," growled Colonel Jermyn, in Hindustani, "that they had better clear out and leave us alone. The _Sirkar_ will hang every man Jack of their tribe if they interfere with us. And the first man in here we'll shoot dead; and the rest of them to follow." The bearer, who understood Baluchi well, rendered this, not minimising the resource and resolution of those within as he did so. A wild yell greeted his words. Then one, more frenzied or enterprising than the rest, pushed his rifle through the window, and the smashing of glass mingled with the report as he blazed into the room. But those within were up to that move. The window being on a line with the door, they had only to flatten themselves against the wall, and the bullet smashed harmless. Then there was a rush on the window. Two men crashed through, badly cut by the glass. Before they could recover themselves they were shot dead. Even Campian's wretched stores revolver did its work on this occasion. That halted the rest--for the moment. Only for the moment. By a rapid movement, crawling beneath the level of the window sill, several managed to discharge their rifles well into the room. Narrowly the bullets missed the defenders. "Look here. This is getting hot," growled the Colonel. "Let's give them one more volley and go into the loft. There one of us can hold the place for ever against the crowd." Campian had his doubts about the strategical wisdom of this. However, just then there was another rush through the window, and this time his revolver jammed. Outside were thirty furious Ghazis, urging each other on with wild fanatical yells. If they two were cut down what of Vivien? That decided him. She could hold that trap door against the crowd. "All right, Colonel. Up you go. I and Der' Ali will hold the window." "You and Der' Ali be damned," growled the staunch old veteran. "Obey orders, sir." "No, no. You forget I'm only a civilian, and not under orders. And-- you must be with Vivien." No time was this for conventionalities, but even then the old man remembered the evening of the earthquake. "Well, I'll cover your retreat from the ladder," he said, and up he went. Campian, by a wrench, brought the cylinder of his weapon round. Then, sighting the head of a Ghazi thrust prominently forward, he let go. It was a miss, but a near one. Under cover of it both he and the bearer gained the loft. A strange silence reigned. The assailants seemed to have drawn off. It was a breathing space, and surely these needed it. The excitement and energetic action brought a relapse. So sudden was the change from a quiet ordinary leave taking to this hell of combat and bloodshed, that it told upon the nerves more than upon the physical resources. Then, too, they could sum up their position. Here they were beyond all possibility of relief. It was only three o'clock in the afternoon. No train would be due at Mehriab until eleven the next morning. Meanwhile these bloodthirsty barbarians would stick at nothing to reach their victims. These were cut off from human aid as entirely, to all intents and purposes, as though thousands of miles within the interior of Africa instead of in the heart of a theoretically peaceful country, over which waved the British flag. "If only the telegraph clerk had been able to send a wire," said the Colonel. "But even if the poor devil wasn't cut down at the start, he'd have been in too big a scare to be able to put his dots and dashes together." Suddenly, with an appalling clatter, two or three logs were hurled through the window on to the floor of the waiting room below. Then some more, followed by a splash of liquid and a tin can. But the throwers did not show. "By the Lord, they are going to try burning us out," said Campian, in a low tone, watching the while for an enemy to show himself. Then came more logs. They were old sleepers which had been piled up beside the line, and were as dry as lucifer matches. On to them came a great heap of tattered paper--the return forms and books found in the station offices. The assailants could load up a great pyre thus without incurring the slightest risk to themselves--could set it alight, too. That was what came of the British way of doing things--a heavily armoured and loop-holed door, and, alongside of it, an open and entirely unprotected window. Truly Upward had been right when he conjectured the Russians would have had a different way. No nation under the sun is more wedded to shortsightedness and red tape than that which is traditionally supposed to rule the waves. Now indeed a feeling of blank despair came into the hearts of at any rate two out of the four as they watched these preparations. Vivien, fortunately, could not see them, for with splendid patience she sat quite still, and refrained from hampering her defenders, even with useless questions. The reek of paraffin rose up strong and sickening. The assailants had flung another can of it upon the pile of combustibles. All this they could do without exposing themselves in the least. "Heavens I are we to be roasted or smoked in a hole?" growled the Colonel. "Cannot we cut our way through?" Campian said nothing. His thoughts were too bitter. He had some belief that these barbarians would not harm Vivien. But death had never been less welcome than at that moment. "Could we not propose terms to them, Colonel? Offer a big ransom, say?" "Nothing like trying. Der' Ali, ask the _budmashes_ how many rupees they want to clear out and leave us alone." The bearer, who spoke Baluchi well, did as he was told. The reply came sharp and decided. "Not any." "Try again, Der' Ali. Tell the fools they'll be none the better for killing us, and we'll promise to do nothing towards having them caught. In fact, promise them anything." Then Der' Ali, who was no fool, put the offer before them in its most tempting light. Everyone knew the Colonel Sahib. His word had never been broken, why should it be this time? The rupees would make them rich men for life, and would be paid with all secrecy. A Moslem himself, Der' Ali quoted the Koran voluminously. It was not for themselves that they feared death, it was on account of the mem-sahib, for if they were slain what would become of her? And what said the Holy Koran? "If ye be kind towards women, and fear to wrong them, God is well acquainted with what ye do." For a time there was silence. The suspense of the beleaguered ones was terrible. Then the reply came. "If the Colonel Sahib would give his promise to pay over the sum of five thousand rupees to an accredited messenger at a certain spot in eight days' time he and the mem-sahib and their servant should be spared. But the other sahib must come down and deliver himself into their hands." "That's all right," said Campian cheerfully, when this had been rendered. "They want me as a hostage. Things are looking up. When they finger the rhino they'll turn me adrift again, and meanwhile I shall see something of the inner life of the wily Baluch." "Tell them we'll double the sum if they let all four of us go," said the Colonel. Der' Ali put this, but the reply of the leader was again prompt and decided. It was in the negative. The other sahib must come and deliver himself into their hands. "The question is, can we trust them?" said the Colonel. "Will they keep to their conditions in any case? Once we are out of this we are at their mercy." "Are we less so here?" said Campian. "A match put to that nice little pile and we shall be smoked or roasted in no time. No. Strike while the iron's hot, say I. Der' Ali, make them swear by all that they hold sacred to keep faith with us, and then I'll come down." "Who is your leader, brothers?" called out the bearer. "I, Ihalil Mohammed Khan," returned the same deep voice that had before spoken. Then Der' Ali put to him the most binding oath he could call to mind, and Ihalil accepted it without hesitation. He bound himself by all the virtues of the Prophet, by the Koran, and by the holy Caaba, faithfully to observe the conditions he had laid down--in short, he almost swore too much. "Say we accept, Der' Ali. I'm coming down." "God bless you, my boy," said the Colonel, as he wrung the other's hand in farewell. "If it was only ourselves, I'd say let's all hang together. But for Vivien's sake. There, good-bye." "Rather--so long, we'll say," was the cheerful reply. "I'll show up again in a few days." Vivien said nothing. A silent pressure of the hands was the extent to which she could trust herself. For all his assumed cheerfulness it was a critical moment for Campian, as once more he stood upon the floor of the waiting room, and, stumbling over the heaped-up combustibles, stepped outside into the full glare of daylight. His nerves were at their highest tension. The chances that he would be cut to pieces or not the moment he showed his face were about even. As in a flash, that question as to whether he was ever afraid of anything darted through his mind. At that moment he was conscious of feeling most horribly and unheroically afraid. No one would have thought it to look at him, though--certainly not those into whose midst he now stepped. "Salaam, brothers!" he said in Hindustani, with a glance at the ring of shaggy scowling faces which hemmed him in. The salute was sullenly returned, and then Ihalil, beckoning him to follow, led the way down the platform, surrounded by the whole party. They passed the body of the murdered policeman and that of the stationmaster, and at these some of the barbarians turned to spit, with muttered curses; and the platform, smeared and splattered with blood, was like the floor of a slaughter-house. Even the dirty white garments of the murderers were splashed with it. Out through the gate at the end of the platform they went. Heavens, was the whole thing a dream--a nightmare? Why, it was less than an hour ago they had entered that gate all so light hearted and unthinking. He remembered the _badinage_ he had been exchanging with Nesta as they passed in through it--and more than one reference as to meeting in Shalalai in a week or two. Now--who could say whether he would meet anybody again--in a week or two or ever? And then his sight fell upon that which caused him well nigh to give up hope. In the shade before the station master's private quarters, a man was squatting--a wild, fierce-looking Baluchi. Before him the whole party now halted, treating him as with the deference due to a leader. But one glance at the grim, cruel face and eagle beak, and shaggy knotted brows, sufficed. In him Campian recognised the man who had scowled so demoniacally upon him in the retinue of the Marri sirdar--the man he had wounded and lamed for life when set upon by the Ghazis in the Kachin valley. And this man was no other than the celebrated outlaw Umar Khan, and now, he was his prisoner. And at that very moment it occurred to those left behind in the loft that any sort of stipulation as to the said prisoner being returned unharmed on the payment of the sum agreed upon had been entirely left out of the covenant. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. AT SHALALAI. "By Jove, but it is good to be back again!" said Upward, in tones of intense satisfaction as he sat down to tiffin in his bungalow at Shalalai. "The garden is looking splendid, and then all the greenery in the different compounds after those beastly stones and junipers--I'm sick of the whole circus. Only a year or two more, thank goodness." "Yes, it is always nice to be at home again," assented his wife. "Nesta must be sick of roughing it, too." "Well, I won't say that," answered the girl. "I'll only agree that I am rather glad to be back again." "So they will be at the club this afternoon," laughed Upward. "By the way, why don't those children come in? They are always late. It's a perfect nuisance." A wrangle of voices, and the children did come in. Racket in hand, they were disputing vehemently as to the rights and wrongs of a game they had been obliged to break off in the middle of. "Wonder how long Campian will stick at Jermyn's? I believe the old chap's getting a bit smashed there." "Nonsense, Ernest," laughed his wife. "You're always thinking someone or other must be getting `smashed.'" "Why shouldn't he? She's a deuced fine girl that niece of Jermyn's--and then just think what a lot they'll see of each other. What do you think about it, Miss Cheriton?" "Oh, I don't know. I've never thought about it." "Too black," put in Lily the irrepressible. "If he could run the gauntlet of Nesta all this time, I don't think he's likely to go smash there." "Of course you're an authority on such matters, Lily," laughed her mother. "Ernest, you see now what notions you put into the children's heads." "I don't want any tiffin," pronounced Hazel. "I only want to get at those nectarines. They just are good. Bother camp! I like it much better here." The large, lofty, cool room in which they were was hung around with trophies of the chase, all spoils of their owner's unerring rifle. One end of the room was hung with the skin of an immense tiger, draped, as it were, from ceiling to floor, the other with that of a somewhat smaller one, which had clawed a native out of a tree and killed him before Upward could get in a shot. Hard by was a finely marked panther-skin whose erewhile wearer had badly mauled Upward himself! Panther and jungle cat and cheetul and others were all represented, and with horns of the blackbuck and sambur, tastefully disposed, produced an effect that was picturesque and unique. It served another purpose, too, as Upward used to say in his dry way. It gave people something to talk about when they came to tiffin and dinner. It was sure to set them comparing notes, or swearing they had seen or shot much bigger ones, and so forth. At any rate, it kept them going. The bungalow was surrounded on three sides by a garden of which Upward was justly proud, for it was all of his own making. In front a trim lawn, bright with flower beds, and beyond this a tennis court, of which his neighbours did him the favour to make constant use. They likewise did him the favour to plant their bicycles, dogs, and other impedimenta, about his flower beds, or against the great crimson and purple convolvulus blossoms entwining his summer-house, whereat he fumed inwardly, but suffered in silence, from a misplaced good nature; and, after all, it was a little way they had in Shalalai. Peaches and nectarines and plums attained a high degree of excellence in their own department, likewise every kind of green vegetable--and the verandah was green and cool with all sorts of ferns. "I wonder none of the garrison have been up, Miss Cheriton," he went on. "They can't have got wind that you're back. What's that? Some of them already?" For Tinkles, suddenly leaping from her chair, darted out into the hall, barking shrilly and making a prodigious fuss. At the same time steps were heard on the verandah. "That's Fleming," said Upward, recognising the voice--then going out into the hall. "Come in here, old chap. Well, what's the news?" "There is some news, but--Hallo! Excuse me, Mrs Upward. Didn't know you were at tiffin." "It's all right. We're just done. Get into that chair and have a `peg'--and then we can hear the _kubbur_." "Well, it's not very definite as yet," replied Fleming, subsiding into the chair indicated. "Thanks, Upward--only a small one, I've just had one at the club. They say--By the bye, didn't you come in from Mehriab yesterday?" "Yes, of course. But why?" "Was it all right?" "Was what all right?" "Why, the look of things?" "We didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Jermyn and his niece and Campian came down with us to see us off. There was nothing wrong then. But why? What do they suspect?" "Dunlop had occasion to wire officially to the stationmaster at Mehriab yesterday afternoon and could get no reply. He kept on wiring, but it was no good." "Maybe some _budmash_ has been playing gooseberry with the wire." "Cutting it? No. The communication is quite all right with the stations next to Mehriab on either side." "It was all right yesterday at Mehriab, for I sent a couple of wires myself," said Upward. "Perhaps the telegraph clerk is taken ill." "It might be that of course. But there's a rumour flying around the bazaar this morning that Umar Khan has been raiding up the Kachin valley. What if he has stuck up Mehriab station to plunder the safe?" Upward whistled. "Yes--that might be," he said. "Only I wish he had done it while we were all there. I had two rifles and a shot gun and a six shooter. I think among us all--myself and Campian and old Jermyn and my two foresters--we'd have given Mr Umar Khan very particular what for. But what should bring him up to those parts? He was supposed to be making the other way when he cut up those two `gharri-wallahs.'" "I don't know. It's only bazaar rumour, mind." "Now I think of it," went on Upward, "there did seem rather more than usual of the evil-looking _soors_ hanging about the platform. They'd all got tulwars too. By Jove--what if they were only waiting till the train had left to break out, and Ghazi the whole show? Oh, Lord! That puts things in a new light. There were enough of them to do it too." Fleming looked grave. "Then what about your friend and the Jermyns?" he said. "Heavens, yes. Perhaps the _soors_ waited until they had gone. Hallo, Miss Cheriton. What's the matter?" For Nesta had gone as pale as death--looking as if she would faint dead away. "It's nothing. I shall be all right again in a minute. Why do you suggest such horrible things?" she broke off quite angrily. "It is enough to upset one." Both men looked foolish--and all stared. The outburst was so unlike her. "Let's go and see if we can get at something definite," said Upward, jumping up. "Did you drive here, Fleming?" "No--biked." "All right I'll jump on mine and we'll spin round to McIvor's. He may have got _kubbur_ of sorts--but these Politicals are so dashed close." A three minutes' spin along the level military road brought the two men to the Acting Political's. That official looked grave at sight of Upward. He guessed his errand--and at once handed him a telegram. "This is the latest," he said. It was a long message, but the substance of it was that on the arrival of the train due at Mehriab that morning at eleven, not a living soul was in sight, nor was any signal down. The engine-driver slowed down and advanced cautiously, when the fact of the massacre became apparent. Then they had been signalled by Colonel Jermyn and his niece, who were in a great state of horror and distress, and reported that their guest had been taken away as prisoner by the Ghazis. They and the Colonel's bearer were taken on to the next station beyond Mehriab, whence they would return to Shalalai by the afternoon train. "What's going to be done about it?" said Upward. "We've started a strong body of Police after them, and two troops of Sindh Horse are to follow," said the Political. "Yes, and then they'll cut Campian's throat. In fact I wonder they didn't already. It looks as if they wanted him ransomed, and if so--by George--the way to do for him is to start dusting a lot of Police after them." The Political was a man of few words. He shrugged his shoulders, and observed that the matter did not rest with him. He could give them all the information he had at his disposal, but that was all. "This wants thinking out, Fleming," said Upward, as they were spinning along on their bicycles again. "What can be done? What the devil _can_ be done? As sure as they run those Ghazis close--then, goodnight to Campian. But Jermyn will be here this evening--then we shall get at the whole story." The evening train arrived in due course, bringing with it the three survivors of the outbreak. The Ghazis had kept faith with them, and had retired, leaving them without further molestation. But the whole night had to be got through, and a very trying one it was, for they were not without fear lest some of the people in the neighbourhood, becoming affected with the contagion of bloodshedding, should come and complete what the Ghazis had left undone. Fortunately there was the _dak_ bungalow for them to retire to--and they were thus enabled to escape from the immediate proximity of the ghastly slaughter-house scenes which the platform, and indeed the railway station generally, presented. No further alarm however had come their way, and they had been picked up by the morning train, as detailed in the telegram. They had come away, of course, with scarcely any luggage, but Upward's bungalow was elastic, and therein they were promptly installed. Vivien, now that the tension was relaxed, succumbed to a nervous reaction that prostrated her for days--and which, indeed, was not entirely due to the horrors she had gone through. The Colonel was loud on Campian's praises. But for him they would never have got out of the mess, by Jove, he declared. The fellow's coolness in venturing among those cut-throats was splendid--and so on. When he got back again in a week or two he would have some experiences, and he seemed the sort of fellow who was partial to experiences. Thus the Colonel. But Upward, listening, was not so easy in his mind. He hoped Campian would be back among them in a week or two, but--Heavens! what if he were not? The Marris were a savage lot, and these particular ones were a combination of Ghazi and brigand. He felt uneasy--most infernally uneasy--in which predicament he did two things--he sent for Bhallu Khan, and consulted long and oft with the authorities. The latter were not so eager to fall in with his views as he considered they ought to be. It might be true, as he said, that aggressive action against Umar Khan would imperil the life of the hostage, but on the other hand, were they to sit supine for eight days, while that notorious ruffian raided and plundered and murdered at will all over the country. The knot of the difficulty however was cut, as is frequently the case, by circumstances. Each movement against him, undertaken with great promptitude and spirit, resulted in failure, whereat Upward, and others interested in the fate of the hostage rejoiced. It was not likely that such a ruthless barbarian as Umar Khan was known to be, would allow his prisoner to be taken out of his hands alive--no, not for a moment-- whereas having kept faith so far he might do so until the end, especially if a handsome _baksheesh_ was added to the stipulated sum. After that, the sooner he was caught and hanged the better. Meanwhile the affair caused great excitement in the outlying parts, and not a little scare. Outlying shooting parties deemed it advisable to return and some of the railway employes on the lonely stations along the line--natives or Eurasians mostly--resigned their posts in panic, fearing lest a similar fate should overtake themselves. On the arrival of Bhallu Khan some news was gleaned, but not much. The Ghazis had hung about the Kachin valley for a day or two, and had looted the forest bungalow--refraining, however, from firing it. Then they seemed to have disappeared entirely, and if he had any sort of inkling of their probable destination, Bhallu Khan, a Baluchi himself, could not or would not reveal it. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. IN THE ENEMY'S HAND. For a while the scowling barbarian contemplated Campian from under his shaggy brows. Then he gave an order to his followers. There stepped forward a man. This fellow had a villainous cast of countenance and a squint. He was of mixed blood, being a cross between Baluch and Punjabi. He had been at one time a _chuprassi_ in a Government office, and talked English fairly well. "Chief say--you know who he is?" he began. "Can't say I do." "Chief say--you ever see him before?" "Can't be sure of that either. Yet, I have an idea I saw him once while having a friendly talk with the Sirdar Yar Hussain Khan." At mention of the Sirdar's name, a faint show of interest seemed to come into the saturnine features of those around. Then the interpreter went on: "Dis chief--he Umar Khan." The interest wherewith he would have received this announcement was dashed with a feeling as of the last glimmer of hope extinguished. It was bad enough to know that he was in the power of a revengeful barbarian with every motive for nourishing a deadly grudge against himself, but that this man should turn out to be the famous outlaw, whose savage and cruel nature was a matter of notoriety--well, he felt as good as dead already. Now he recognised that Umar Khan's object in leading the Ghazi outbreak was not merely that of indiscriminate bloodshed, or even plunder. It was to get possession of himself--for the purpose of wreaking some deadly vengeance which he shuddered to contemplate--and well he might. "Tell Umar Khan," he said, "that the money we have promised him will be punctually paid--and that when I am back among my friends again in Shalalai I will add to it another two thousand rupees." The outlaw chief received the rendering of this with a contemptuous grunt, and continued to glare none the less vindictively upon his prisoner. Then he gave certain orders, in the result of which those who had horses prepared to mount them, the remainder following on foot; for those Marris who had been surprised into participating in the massacre had now decided to cast in their lot with Umar Khan. A steed was also provided for Campian, but over and above being an inferior beast, a check rein, held by one of his custodians, was passed through the bit. Before they set forth, however, the leader issued another order, and in the result there stepped out from the stationmaster's house two men. To his surprise the hostage recognised in these Bhallu Khan and the other forest guard. So these were the traitors? These had brought this crew of cut-throat murderers down upon them--and would share in the spoil. Such was his first thought, but he had never made a greater mistake in his life; the fact being that the two foresters were as innocent of complicity as he himself. They had been squatting outside the station after bidding farewell to their official superior. As fellow countrymen and fellow believers, the Ghazis had refrained from putting them to the sword, but had ordered them to remain within the outbuilding while the work of blood and plunder proceeded--and neither to come forth nor to look forth on pain of death. Now they were released. But first Umar Khan treated them to a long harangue, to which they listened with profound attention. Campian--hailing the man who had acted as interpreter--told him to ask the chief if he might write a line to the Colonel Sahib and send it by the foresters. A curt refusal was returned, and he was ordered to mount. As the band receded over the plain, from its midst he could see the white figures of the two foresters moving along the platform--but no others. Yes--he could. He could make out Vivien's figure. He thought he knew what was in her mind as she strained her glance over that amount of space, if haply she might distinguish him in that throng of retreating forms--and it seemed to him that their very souls went forth to each other and met in blissful reconciliation. Then all was shut from his gaze. The band was entering the black portal of a great _tangi_. The sight of its smooth rock walls brought back the recollection of that other day, and the result was, on the whole, a cheering one. Then how sore had been his strait. He had come through it, however. Why not again? At sundown they halted, and spreading their chuddas and putting off their shoes, the whole band proceeded to perform their devotions in most approved fashion. Behind them lay the mangled remains of their unoffending and defenceless victims, slaughtered in cold blood; but then these were heathens and infidels, and to slay such was a meritorious act. So these sons of the desert and the mountain prayed in the direction of Mecca with enhanced faith and fervour. Throughout half the night they travelled onward. Onward and upward, for they seemed to be ascending higher and higher among the jagged mountain crests. The wind blew piercingly cold, and Campian shivered. They threw him an old poshteen or fur-lined coat, and this he was glad to pull round him in spite of qualms lest it should already be more or less thickly populated. Soon after midnight they halted, and building a large fire under an overhanging rock, lay down beside it. Campian, worn out with fatigue and the reaction after the day's excitement, went into a heavy dreamless sleep. He was awakened by a push. It seemed as though he had been asleep but five minutes, whereas in point of fact it must have been nearly midday, so high in the heavens was the sun. He looked forth. Piles of mountains in chaotic masses heaved up around; all stones and slag; no trees, no herbage worthy of the name. One of the Baluchis handed him a bowl of rice, cold and insipid, and a chunk of mahogany looking substance, which smelt abominably rancid--and which he turned from with loathing. It was in fact a hunk of dried and salted goat flesh. Having got outside the first article of diet, he remembered ruefully how he had been cheerful over the prospect of seeing something of the inner life of the lively Baluchi, but this, as a beginning, was decidedly discouraging. This appeared to be a favourite halting place, judging from the old marks of fires everywhere around, and a better hiding place it seemed hard to imagine, such an eyrie was it, perched up here out of reach, where one might pass below again and again and never suspect its existence. The band seemed in no hurry, resting there the entire day. Part of this the hostage turned to account by trying to win over the good offices of the squint-eyed cross-breed. This worthy, who rejoiced in the name of Buktiar Khan, was not indisposed to talk. He too was promised a largesse when the prisoner should be set at liberty. "What you do to dis chief?" he said, in reply to this. "Eh? I don't quite follow." "Dis chief, he hate you very much. What you do to him?" "Oh, I see," and the prisoner's heart sank. His chances of escaping death--and that in some ghastly and barbarous form--looked slighter and slighter. "I never harmed him, that I know of for certain. I never harmed anyone except in fair fight. If he has suffered any injury from me it must be in that way. Tell him, Buktiar, if you get the opportunity, and if you don't, make the opportunity--that a man with the name for bravery and dash that he has made does not bear a grudge over injuries received in fair and open fight. You understand?" "I un'stand--when you slow speak. Baluchi, he very cross man. You strike him, he strike you. You kill him, his one brother, two brother, kill you, if not dis year, then next year." A rude interruption there and then occurred to bear out the other's words. Campian, who was seated on the ground at the time, felt himself seized from behind and flung violently on his back. Half-a-dozen sinewy ruffians had laid hold of him, and he was powerless to move. Bending over him was the savage face of Umar Khan, stamped with the same expression of diabolical malignity as it had worn when he had first beheld it. "O dog," began the outlaw, pushing his now helpless prisoner with his foot, "dost guess what I am going to do with thee?" "Put an end to me, I suppose," answered Campian wearily, when this had been rendered. "But it doesn't seem fair. I yielded myself up on the understanding that I should only be detained until the five thousand rupees were paid. And now I have promised you two thousand more. What do you gain by my death?" Buktiar duly translated this, and the Baluchi answered: "What do I gain? Revenge--blood for blood. But hearken. I had intended to strike off thy head, but thou shalt have thy life. Yet if Umar Khan must walk lame for the remainder of his life, why should the dog whose bite rendered him lame walk straight? Answer that, dog--pig-- answer that," growled the barbarian, grinding his teeth, and working himself up into a frenzy of vindictive rage. "Tell him what I said just now, Buktiar--that a brave man never bears malice for wounds received in fair fight," was the answer. But this appeal was lost on Umar Khan. He spat contemptuously and went on. "I had meant to strike off thy head, thou pig, but will be merciful. As I walk lame, thou shalt walk lame. I will strike off both thy feet instead." A cold perspiration broke out from every pore as this was translated to the unfortunate man. Even if he survived the shock and agony of this frightful mutilation, the prospect of going through life maimed and helpless, and all that it involved--Oh, it was too terrible. "I would rather die at once," he said. "It will come to that, for I shall bleed to death in any case." "Bleed to death? No, no. Fire is a good _hakim_," [Physician], replied the Baluchi, with the laugh of a fiend. "Turn thy head and look." Campian was just able to do this, though otherwise powerless to move. Now he noticed that the fire near which they had been sitting had been blown into a glow, and an old sword blade which had been thrust in it was now red hot. The perspiration streamed from every pore at the prospect of the appalling torment to which they were about to subject him. Not even the thought that this was part of the forfeit he had to pay for the saving of Vivien availed to strengthen him. Unheroic as it may sound, there was no room for other emotion in his mind than that of horror and shrinking fear. The ring of savage, turbaned countenances thrust forward to witness his agony were to him at that moment as the faces of devils in hell. Umar Khan drew his tulwar and laid its keen edge against one of the helpless man's ankles. "Which foot shall come off first?" he snarled. "You, Mohammed, have the hot iron ready." He swung the great curved blade aloft, then down it came with a swish. Was his foot really cut off? thought the sufferer. It had been done so painlessly. Ah, but the shock had dulled the agony! That would follow immediately. Again the curved blade swung aloft. This time it was quietly lowered. "Let him rise now," said Umar Khan, with a devilish expression of countenance which was something between a grin and a scowl. Those who held him down sprang off. In a dazed sort of way Campian rose to a sitting posture and stared stupidly at his feet. No mutilated stump spouting blood met his gaze. The vindictive savage had been playing horribly upon his fears. He was unharmed. "I have another thought," said Umar Khan, returning his sword to its scabbard. "I will leave thee the use of thy feet until to-morrow morning. Then thou shalt walk no more." The prospect of a surgical amputation, even when carried out with all the accessories of scientific skill, is not conducive to a placid frame of mind, by any means. What then must be that of a cruel mutilation, with all the accompaniments of sickening torture, for no other purpose than to gratify the vindictive spite of a barbarian? The reaction from the acute mental agony he had undergone had rendered Campian strangely helpless. It was a weariful feeling, as though he would fain have done with life, and in his desperation he glanced furtively around to see if it would not be possible to snatch a weapon and die, fighting hard. A desire for revenge upon the ruffian who had subjected him to such outrage then came uppermost. Could he but seize a tulwar, Umar Khan should be his first victim, even though he himself were cut to pieces the next moment. But he had no opportunity. The Baluchis guarded their weapons too carefully. "Does that devil really mean what he says, Buktiar?" he took occasion to ask, "or is he only trying to scare me?" "He mean it," replied the cross-breed, somewhat gloomily, for were the prisoner injured the prospect of his own reward seemed to vanish. "Once he cut off one man's feet--and hands too--and leave him on the mountain. Plenty wolf that part--dey eat him." This was cheering. How desperate was his strait, here, in the power of these cruel savages--in the heart of a ghastly mountain waste that a month or two ago he had never heard of--even now he did not know where he was. Their route the day before had been so tortuous that he could not guess how near or how far they had travelled from any locality known to him. "I will give you a thousand rupees, Buktiar, if you help me to escape," he said. "If you can't help me, but do nothing to prevent me, I'll give you five hundred." The cross-breed squinted diabolically as he strove to puzzle out how he was to earn this reward. Like most Asiatics he was acquisitive and money loving, and to be promised a rich reward, and yet see no prospect of being able to earn it, was tantalising to the last degree. He shook his head in his perplexity. "Money good, life better," he said. "Dey see me help you--then I dead. What I do?" Then Umar Khan spoke angrily, and in the result Buktiar left the side of the prisoner, with whom he had no further opportunity of converse that day. The night drew down in gusty darkness. A misty drizzle filled the air, and it was piercingly cold. The Baluchis huddled round their fires, having lighted two, and presently their deep-toned drowsy conversation ceased. One by one they dropped off to sleep. Then a desperate resolve took hold of Campian's mind. He was unbound, and, to all appearances, unguarded--why should he not make the attempt? Any death was preferable to the horrible prospect which morning light would bring. He might be cut down or shot in the attempt. Equally great was the probability of coming to a violent end among the cliffs and chasms of this savage mountain waste. No sooner resolved upon than he arose, and, drawing his poshteen tighter round him, walked deliberately forth; stepping over the unconscious forms of the sleeping Baluchis. His very boldness aided him. None moved. In a moment he was alone in the darkness outside. A thrill of exultation ran through his veins. Yet what was there to exult over? He was alone upon the wild mountain side--unarmed, and without food--in a perfectly unknown land. Every step he took fairly bristled with peril. The wind increased in volume; the rain pattered down harder. He could not see an inch in front of him. Any moment might find him plunging from some dizzy height to dash himself into a thousand fragments and Eternity. Here again his very desperation saved him. Trusting entirely and blindly to luck, he skirted perils that would have engulfed a more careful and less desperate man. Anything rather than a repetition of his experience of that day. On through the darkness--on ever. The howl of a wolf ranging the mountain side was now and then borne to his ears upon the wind and rain: and more than once the dislodgment of a loose stone or two, and its far away thud, after a momentary space of silence, told that he was skirting some vast height, whether of cliff or _tangi_--but even that failed to chill his blood. He was moving--his energies were in action. That was the great thing. He was no longer cold now. The exertion had warmed him. He felt more and more exultant. Yet with morning light his enemies would be upon his track. Here, among their native rocks and crags, what chance had he against these persistent, untiring hillmen? The savage hatred of Umar Khan, enhanced by being deprived of a sure and certain prey, would strain every source to effect his recapture. Well, he had the long night before him, and the darkness and turbulence of the night were all in his favour. If only he had some idea of his locality. The tidings of the outrage would have reached Shalalai, and by now a strong military force would have been moved up to Mehriab station to investigate the scene of the massacre, and follow up its perpetrators. But he had no idea in which direction Mehriab station lay, or what mountain heights might have to be crossed before he could gain it. Morning dawned. Weary eyed, haggard, exhausted with many hours of the roughest kind of walking, stumbling over boulders and stones, bruised, faint for want of food, the fugitive still held on. He was descending into a long, deep valley, whose sides were covered with juniper forest. Shelter, at any rate, its sparse growth might afford him. Ha! He knew now where he was. It was the Kachin valley. Yes, in the widening dawn every familiar feature was made more plain. He had come over the high _kotal_ which he and Bhallu Khan had climbed to when stalking markhor. There was the spur which shut out Chirria Bach, and away up yonder the forest bungalow. Could he gain the latter he could obtain food, of which he stood sorely in need, as well as arms and ammunition. Some of the servants were still there. They would have heard nothing of the tragedy on the railway line, and would be momentarily expecting the return of the household. Turning to the right he struck off straight for the house, full of renewed hope. But that huge, practical joke entitled Life is, in its pitiless irony, fond of dashing such. He had barely travelled half a mile when a rattle of stones on the mountain side above arrested his attention. A score of turbaned figures were clambering down the rocks. Spread out in a half circle formation they were nearly upon him. There was no escape. Umar Khan and his savage freebooters were not going back on their reputation just yet. The fugitive's long night of peril, and labour, and perseverance, had all gone for nothing. Several of the Ghazis were already pointing their rifles, and in loud, harsh tones were calling on him to halt. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. "MOHAMMED ER RASOUL ALLAH?" "Ping-ping!" The bullets sang around him--splattering the rocks with blue lead marks. Not for a moment did he think of stopping. They might shoot him dead, but alive he would not yield. Besides there was one last desperate chance, and he meant to try it. The markhor cave! A final spurt would bring him to that. It was just round yon shoulder of cliff, which at present concealed it. His pursuers would not even see him enter it, and there were smaller holes and crannies around which would puzzle them. Besides, he remembered there were superstitions attaching to it. These might possibly deter them from entering at all. It was a straw, but a slender one. One great and final effort. He penetrated its normally forbidding but now welcome blackness, and sank down panting on the rock-floor. For some minutes he thus crouched, listening intently. He heard the rattle of stones outside; now and then the tones of a deep voice, or the clink of rifle-barrel or scabbard against the rock. The search was proceeding right merrily, yet, why had it not begun here? Some minutes went by. To the hunted man, crouching there, they meant hours. Then the sound of steps approaching. They were going to search the markhor cave. His last chance had failed. The footsteps outside halted. Then he heard the voice of their owner calling, and receiving answers from several other voices. He was calling to his comrades to come and aid in the search. Superstition, evidently, disinclined him to prosecute it alone. It could not be the fugitive that he feared, seeing that the latter was unarmed, and probably quite exhausted. Then a wild and daring idea came into Campian's mind--in fact, so utterly desperate a plan that were he allowed time to think of it, the bare thought would suffice to send a cold shiver through his frame. The chasm--into which he had so nearly stepped on the occasion of his first and last visit to this place! The chasm--into whose black depths he and Vivien had stood gazing, side by side. It was his last and only chance, but--what a chance! His matchbox contained a few wax vestas. The pursuers, probably still collecting to explore the cave in force, had not begun to enter. Groping his way round a rock corner which would partially or entirely shield the light from those without, he struck a vesta, deadening, so far as he was able, the sound with his hollowed hands. It flamed forth--a mere flicker in the cavernous gloom. But it was sufficient for his purpose. There lay the black rift, like the great serpent for which he had at first taken it. He was right at its brink. Then flinging into it the spent vesta, he grasped the edge and let himself carefully down, hanging by the grasp of his two hands alone on the lip of the fissure, in the pitchy darkness over that awful unfathomable depth which seemed to go down into the very heart of the earth. The tension was fearful. He must let go. Every muscle was strained and cracking. And now a glow of light told that his enemies were entering with torches. Ha! he had overlooked that contingency. The light would reveal his strained fingers grasping the rock. One cut of a tulwar-- and-- Then his feet came in contact with something--something that clinked faintly as with the sound of metal. Groping carefully with both feet, lo! they closed on what felt like an iron chain. Heavens! it was a chain--a massive iron chain depending in some way from the rock above. In the increasing glow of the torches he could make out that. Here was a Heaven-sent chance. Grasping the great links firmly with knees and feet, he let go, first with one hand, then the other, and seized the chain. It, with its rough links, afforded a safe and solid resting place for a time. The pursuers had now arrived right at the brink. Their bizarre, turbaned shadows on the opposite rock wall looked gnome-like in the smoky glare of the torches. But in the said glare he recognised, with a rush of hope, that unless they peered right over they could not see him, for the chain hung from an iron bolt let into the rock, which here projected just above his head. The weird shadows on the rock danced and tossed, the guttering light grotesquely exaggerating every movement. He who hung there could hear the deep-toned voices right over him. The chain to which he clung swayed and shivered with the concussion of the tramp of many feet above. They held out a torch or two over the abyss, and dropped a few pebbles down--even as he himself had done when with Bhallu Khan. He could hear their exclamations as the stones struck far below with a faint thud. Could he have understood them, his relief would have been greater still. Among them, however, he thought to recognise the harsh, snarling voice of Umar Khan. "If the dog has gone down here," that worthy was saying, "why, then, he is already suffering the torments of hell. If he entered this place at all, how should he not have fallen in, seeing that it is darker than night within the cave, and this hole is a pitfall to the unwary, and a very entrance to the abode of devils?" "In here he entered without doubt," said Ihalil Mohammed, "for every other hole have we searched thoroughly." To this the others assented. Their prisoner had undoubtedly given them the slip. Dead or alive he would never be seen again. All this the hunted man, thus hanging there, could not understand. Would they never give up the search, he was wondering. Well for him that he was in hard form and training--yet he was not so young as he used to be, he recognised bitterly, as every joint and muscle ached with the convulsive tension involved in thus supporting his own weight, for an apparently unlimited period, entirely by compression. Well for him, too, that the links were rough with red, flaky rust, thus affording increased facility of hold. Yet would these hell hounds never give up the search? They were forced to at last. The red glow of the torches grew fainter, then died out--so, too, did the sound of footsteps and voices. Campian was in pitch darkness, suspended over this awful and unknown depth. Now that the more active peril was withdrawn, and his attention thus drawn inwards, he was able to think, to realise the full horror of his position. How was he to return? Cramped, aching, exhausted, he felt as though he could hardly hold on, let alone work his way upward. His blood ran cold too as he realised what would have been his fate but for this solid and substantial means of support right to his hand. Half a yard further on either side, and--No, it would not bear thinking of, and no sooner had he arrived at this conclusion than one foot, unconsciously lowered, came in contact with something. Something hard, wide, horizontal it was, for as he cautiously increased the pressure he felt it sway and tilt slightly. Then, with equal caution, he lowered the other foot on the other side of the chain. It, too, met with like support. Carefully, with both feet, he increased the pressure so as to test the weight, still preserving his hand-hold. Nothing gave way, and his heart leaped within him as he found he had secured a firm resting place whereon to recruit his strength against his return climb. And now, safe for the time being, his thoughts were busy with speculation as to this structure hung here in the black depths of the gulf. A great massive iron chain supporting a convenient swinging platform, had not found its way there expressly to afford him a secure refuge in the hour of peril, that much was certain. Then his nerves thrilled and tingled as the conjecture uttered by Vivien in this very place came back to his mind: "_What if the things are at the bottom of that cleft_?" Heavens! Had this structure to do with the hidden treasure--the priceless ruby sword? Instinctively he sought his matchbox. No. That would be madness. His pursuers might not even have left the entrance of the cave. Not for hours would it be safe to strike a light. And for hours, indeed, he hung there and waited. He groped around the platform, first with one foot then with the other, and it dawned upon him that the structure was no ordinary board, or it would have tilted. It was a solid block of wood--no--a box. A box? A chest! That was it. What if it held the treasure itself? And then by a strange fatality the conviction that this would prove to be the case took firm hold of his mind--and if so, by what a terrible sequence of tragic events had he been constituted its finder. Would not the recent dread experiences be worth going through to have led up to this splendid discovery? All would yet be well. The best of life was before him yet Vivien's last look, as he descended from their place of refuge to purchase her safety by delivering himself into the hands of their enemies, burned warm within his soul. When he returned safe, as one who returned from the dead, what would not her welcome be? Surely the glow of the old days would be as nothing to this. These and other such thoughts coursed through his mind as he hung there in the pitchy blackness--and indeed it was well for him that such was the case. Nothing is more utterly unnerving than any space of time spent in an absolutely silent and rayless gloom, but when, in addition to that, the subject is swung on a hanging platform, whose very stability he can vouch for with no degree of certitude, over a chasm of unknown depth, and that for hours, why, he needs a mental stimulus of a pretty strong and exalted type. Judging it safe at last to do so, Campian struck a light. Feeble enough it seemed in the vast gloom, and not until it had burned out were his eyes capable of seeing anything after being for hours in black darkness. Then, stooping as low as he dared, he lit another. Yes. It was even as he had conjectured. The platform he was standing on was a box or chest. It was of very old and hard grained wood, almost black, and clamped together with solid brass bindings. It showed no sign of having suffered from the ravages of time, and the upper part, which was all he could see, was covered with Arabic characters, curiously inlaid-- probably texts from the Koran. He had no doubt but this was what had occupied so much of his thoughts, the hidden and forgotten treasure chest of the fugitive Durani chief, Dost Hussain Khan. Little is it to be wondered at if even there he felt thrilled with exultation as he remembered what priceless valuables it certainly contained. But that thrill of exultation sustained a rude shock--in fact died away. For happening to glance up while lighting another match it came home to him that whether the chest contained valuables or not, the probability that he would ever be in a position to put that contingency to the test was exceedingly slender; for to gain the brink of the chasm, and the outer air again, looked from there an absolute impossibility. The chain, and that which it supported, depended from a solid bolt let into the rock, but the latter overhung it in a cornice or lip, which projected nearly half a yard. He would never be able to worm himself over this. And then it came home to him that he was beginning to feel quite faint with hunger, and that his strength was leaving him fast. Well, the feat must be attempted. Lighting another match--and he had few left now--he sent a long steady look at the projection, the fastening of the chain, and the distance from the edge. Then he began his climb. This was not great. The rock lip projected only about half a yard above his hands at their highest tension. He drew himself up. He was under the projection--groping outward along it in the darkness. Now he gripped it firmly with both hands--still clinging to the chain with feet and legs. He was about to swing himself off. One hand half-slipped away. No, he could not do it. His strength failed him, likewise his nerve. He was barely able to seize the chain again and let himself down to the vantage ground of the box, where he stood literally trembling. This would not do at all. He must rest for a few moments and recruit his strength, must quell this shaky fit by sheer force of will. It could not be--he argued with himself--that he had come through all this, had made this royal discovery, by a chain of coincidences signal and tragic, only to fail at the last; to be swept into nothingness; to disappear from all human sight as completely as though dead and buried already. He was a bit of a fatalist, too, and this partially supported him now. If he was to come through safely, why he would--if not--! And with this thought, as by an inspiration, came another idea. He could never raise himself above the rock projection from which the chain hung--that much was certain. But--the point whence he had let himself down was only a foot to the right. There the edge did not overlap. Steadying his over-wrought nerves, he drew himself up once more. Holding on tightly he reached forth one hand. It grasped the brink. Carefully he felt along the hard rock. Yes--that would do. Now for it. He put forth the other hand. And now the moment was crucial. One arm was already along the floor above the edge. Campian's fate hung in the balance there in the pitchy gloom. Beneath him all black darkness, death, horror, annihilation. The merest feather weight either way would turn the scale. He let go of the chain with his feet. A last and mighty effort, and--he was lying safe and sound on the rock-floor above; well nigh unconscious with exhaustion and the awful strain his nerves had undergone. For long he lay thus. Then the cravings of hunger became more than he could bear. Physical nature reasserted itself. He must obtain food at all risks. The forest bungalow was not far from that place. There he would find it. It must have been hours since he took refuge here. His enemies had surprised him just at daybreak; now it was high noon. Prudence counselled that he should wait until night--physical craving argued that by then he would hardly have strength left him to make his way anywhere; and the physical argument prevailed, as it ordinarily does. He stepped forth quickly and gained the shelter of the juniper forest. The glare of the sun blinded him, and the sparse foliage afforded but poor shade. He staggered along exhausted, yet full of renewed hope and resolution. But for the mental and bodily exhaustion which half dulled his faculties, he would have become aware of a peculiar nasal, droning sound a short distance in front of him. As it was he hardly heard it, or if so, missed its significance. When, however, he became alive to the latter it was too late. In a small open space, overhung on the further side by rocks, a score of turbaned figures were kneeling. They were in two rows, and, barefooted, were prostrating themselves in the approved method of the faithful at prayer. Then, rising, repeated, with one voice, their orisons, which were led by a single figure a little in advance of the rest. It was too late. With the first footfall of the intruder, round came several shaggy faces. The effect was magical. The entire band of fervid devotees sprang to its feet as one man. Tulwars whirled from their scabbards, and, in a moment, the intruder was surrounded. Well might the latter now despair. Well might he realise that the bitterness of death was indeed past. All that he had gone through was as nothing. He had walked, with his eyes open, right into the midst of his enemies, had placed, of his own act, his life in their hands. Foremost among the threatening, scowling countenances was the repulsive, exultant one of Umar Khan. "Ah! ah!" snarled this implacable savage, with a grin of exultation. "Lo, the sheep returns to the slaughter, for so wills it God." "Allah?" repeated the destined victim, catching the last word. "Hearken, Moslem, in hearken!" he called out in Hindustani, eyeing with unconcern the uplifted sword of his arch enemy. Then, standing there in their midst, and facing in the direction they had been facing while at prayer, he extended both hands heavenward, and uttered in a loud, firm voice: "_La illah il Allah, Mohammed er rasoul Allah_!" A gasp of wonder went up from those who beheld. As by magic every weapon was lowered. Campian had professed the faith of Islam. For some moments these fanatical brigands stared stupidly at each other, then at the figure of the sometime infidel, but now believer. The spell was broken by their leader. "It is well!" he said, advancing upon Campian, and again raising his tulwar. "There is rejoicing in Paradise now, for in a moment it will be the richer for a newly gained soul." But before the weapon could descend, an interruption occurred. A little bowed, bent figure came hurrying into the group. Campian recognised the sometime leader of the devotions. "Hold now, my children," he cried, in tones quavering with age and excitement, as he interposed his staff and rosary between the weapon of Umar Khan and its intended victim. "Have ye not grievously offended God? Have ye not broken into his hour of prayer, with brawling and strife? Would you further damn your own souls by shedding the blood of a true believer within this holy _ziarat_ [a local shrine or sanctuary]--for I myself have heard the profession of this Feringhi? Have no fear, my son--have no fear," he added, turning to Campian, and placing an aged, wrinkled claw upon one shoulder. "None shall do thee hurt, thou, who art now one of the faithful--for if any harm thee," shaking his staff menacingly, "let him shrivel before the curse of the Syyed Ain Asraf." The only words of this address intelligible to the now ransomed victim-- though he understood the burden thereof--was the name--and at that he could not repress a start of amazement. Those around beholding this were equally astonished. "See," they said among themselves. "Even to the infidel has the fame and holiness of the Syyed Ain Asraf reached." Even Umar Khan dare not openly resist the will of one so holy as the Syyed, and that as a matter of fact. But though baulked for the present, he turned sullenly away, meditating further mischief. CHAPTER NINETEEN. HOPES AND FEARS. A Regimental band was playing in the grounds of the Shalalai Club, which institution constituted the ordinary afternoon resort of the society of the station. A row of subalterns were roosting on the railing in front of the exclusively male department of the club, while their dogs fought and frisked, and snarled and panted, on the sward underneath. Every variety of dog--large and small, mongrel and thoroughbred--was there represented; indeed far more variety than might have been discerned among their owners, who, for the most part, were wonderfully alike; as to ideas, no less than in outward aspect. As the afternoon wore on, more subs would ride up by twos and threes, on bicycles or in dog-carts--or even the homely necessary "gharri"--with more dogs, and after going inside for a "peg," would emerge to swell the ranks of those already on the rail; their dogs the while engaging in combat with those already on the sward. This rail-roost was a deeply cherished institution, which no consideration apparently was able to shake; whether the frowns or hints of superiors, or the attractions of the ornamental sex. This was scarcely surprising, for the ornamental sex as represented at Shalalai was, with very little exception, singularly unornamental; which, though paradoxical, was none the less fact. The tennis courts were in full blast, with a fringe of spectators. There were many sunshades and up-to-date hats and costumes scattered about the lawn, yet upwards of forty British subalterns roosted upon the railing. "Hallo, Cox," sung out one, hailing a new comer. "When are you going to catch Umar Khan?" "No betting on this time, Cox," said another, "unless it's on Umar Khan." He addressed was a handsome, pleasant, fresh faced young fellow, who held a somewhat important political post. The point of the banter on the subject of Umar Khan was that Cox had started in pursuit of that bold bandit immediately on receipt of the news of the Mehriab station affair. He had started absolutely confident of success, but he might as well have started to stalk the wily markhor with the regimental band playing before him. That had been some weeks ago, but as yet neither Cox nor anyone else had ever come within measurable prospect of laying the marauder by the heels. "Oh, _bus_!" retorted Cox. "Pity they don't turn out some of you fellows after him. A week or so of tumbling about among rocks and stones would do you all the good in life. Anyone know where Upward's to be found, by the way?" "The jungle-wallah? He was in the billiard room just now knocking fits out of old Jermyn with that tiger-potting stroke of his. Why? Anything fresh turned up?" "I expect you fellows will soon be started after Umar Khan," retorted Cox, looking knowing, as he turned away to find Upward. "Wonder if he really means it?" said one of the rail-roosters, after he had left, and then they fell to talking about the notorious brigand, and discussing a current rumour to the effect that the Government contemplated arresting the principal Marri chiefs for suspected complicity in Umar Khan's misdemeanours, and holding them as hostages against the surrender of that outlaw, and the safe restoration of his prisoner. "Wonder if that poor devil Campian's throat has been cut yet?" conjectured someone. "More than likely. If not it will be, directly any of the chiefs are interfered with." "They won't bone Mr Umar Khan," said another Solon of the rail-roost. "He's skipped over into Afghanistan long ago, and the Amir won't give him up, you bet. Shouldn't wonder if he was at the bottom of it all himself." At that time the Amir of Kabul was a very Mephisto in the sight of the collective and amateur wisdom of the Northern border. A wave of interest here ran along the line of the rail-roosters--evoked by the bowling up of a neat dogcart, whose occupants, two in number, were alighting at the door of the feminine department of the club. "By Jove! Those are two pretty girls. And neither belong here," added the speaker plaintively. "She _can_ handle the ribbons, that Miss Wymer," cut in another of more sporting vein, who had been critically surveying the arrival of the turn-out. "She's got a fine hand on that high-actioned gee of old Jermyn's. Isn't that the brute that Wendsley had to sell because his wife couldn't drive him?" "No. You've got the affair all mixed," returned yet another emphatically. And then, while a warm horse argument grew and thrived among one section, another continued and fostered apace the discussion concerning those just deposited there through the motive power of the quadruped under dispute. "I don't think Miss Wymer is pretty," declared a Solon of the rail. "She's awfully fetching, though." "Rather. There's a something about her you don't often meet with, and you don't know what the devil it is, either. By the way, wasn't old Bracebrydge properly smashed on her?" "Oh, he's that on every woman under the sun--in rotation. This one let him have what for, though." "Did she? Eh, what about? How was it?" exclaimed several. "Rather. They were talking about the Mehriab affair, and Bracebrydge said something sneering about that poor plucky devil, Campian. You know what a blundering, tactless, offensive beast Bracebrydge can be. Well, he said they were all making too much of the affair, and more than hinted that Campian had only done what he did so as to seize the first opportunity of running away later on. Miss Wymer only answered that she thought she knew one or two who wouldn't have waited for that--they'd have run away at the start. But it was the way she said it, looking him straight in the face all the time. By George, it was great, I can tell you--great. Bracebrydge looked as sick as if he had just been hit in the eye." "Serve him jolly well right," declared one of the listeners, and his opinion was universally seconded, for Bracebrydge was not popular among those who roosted on the railing. "I think Miss Cheriton's the prettiest of the two," said the youth who had first spoken. "She's one of the most fetching girls I ever saw in my life." "Then why don't you make hay while the sun shines?" rejoined another. "Go and make yourself agreeable--if you can, that is. They've just gone into the library. Go and ask her to play tennis, or something, chappie." "I think I will." And sliding from the rail with some alacrity, away he went. Those remaining continued their subject. "Bracebrydge must have been a double-dyed ass to have hit that particular nail on the head. It's my belief he couldn't have hit the wrong one harder, anyway." "The devil he couldn't!" "Well, I don't know, mind. Only look at the opportunities they had, thrown almost entirely upon each other up there, for old Jermyn doesn't count. If they hadn't altogether set up a _bundobust_, it was most likely only a question of time." "_Miss_ Wymer hasn't been to a dance since that affair," struck in another oracle of the rail. "Looks as if there was some fire beneath the smoke. What?" "That don't follow, either. Mind you, the chap deliberately went to have his throat cut so that the others should be let go, and while his fate is a matter of uncertainty it is only what a nice girl like that would do to keep a bit quiet. She wouldn't care to think, while she was frisking about at dances, that at that very moment they might be hacking the poor chap to pieces." It so happened that the theory set forth by the last two speakers expressed with very fair accuracy the real state of affairs. Naturally self-contained, and with immense power of control over her feelings, Vivien was able to support the terrible strain of those weeks without-- in popular parlance--giving herself away. And it was a strain. Day and night his image was with her, but always as she had seen him last; calmly and cheerfully delivering himself into the merciless hands of these cruel, marauding fanatics, giving his life for her and hers. Of the old days she dared not even think--and, since this tragedy had come between, they seemed so far away. Small wonder, then, if she refrained from joining in the ordinary round of station gaieties, yet not too pointedly, and she was the better able to do this that, being a comparative stranger in the place, her abstention was ascribed to a natural seriousness of temperament. Even thus, however, it could not entirely escape comment, as we have seen. She and Nesta Cheriton had become great friends, although as different in temperament as in outward characteristics. In public, at any rate, they were generally about together, and in private, too, seemed to see a good deal of each other. It was almost as though they had some bond in common, and yet Vivien never by word or hint let out the ever present subject of her thoughts to any living soul. She had not quite lost hope, but as the days went by and nothing was heard either of the captive, or of the marauding outlaw who held him, she well nigh did lose it. Both seemed to have vanished into empty air. For the stipulated ransom had been duly paid. Colonel Jermyn, with the aid of Upward and the head forest guard, had met Umar Khan's envoy--none other than Ihalil Mohammed himself--he who had negotiated the terms. Great was the amazement and disgust of all when told that the prisoner would not be handed over. It was not in the _bundobust_. Nothing had been said as to the restoration of Campian on payment of the five thousand rupees. The Colonel and Der' Ali stared at each other in blank dismay, for they recognised that this was only too true. No such stipulation had been made, they remembered. But, of course, it had been understood, they put it to the envoy. That wily Baluchi merely shook his head slightly, and repeated--as impassable as ever, "It was not in the _bundobust_." Then the Colonel raved and swore. It was treachery, black, infernal treachery. He believed they had murdered their prisoner already, at any rate, not one _pice_ should they get from him until the sahib was handed over safe and sound. Then they should have every _anna_ of it. Not before. At this Ihalil Mohammed merely elevated one shaggy eyebrow, and remarked laconically: "Sheep are flayed after they are dead, _not before_." The Colonel stared blankly over the apparent inconsequence of this remark, then, as the fiendish import of it dawned upon him, he lost his temper, and nearly his head. His hand flew to his revolver. This time Ihalil Mohammed elevated two shaggy eyebrows and observed: "Sheep are flayed _and roasted_ after they are dead--_not before_." Then he relapsed into his wonted saturnine taciturnity. The others consulted together. Ihalil seemed hardly interested enough even to watch them. The wily Baluchi knew that the key to the whole situation was in his own hand. He had marked the visible discomfiture produced by his hideous threat. He knew that the stipulated sum would be paid, and that he himself would be suffered to depart with it unmolested--and, indeed, such was the case. "Is the sahib still alive?" asked the Colonel. "He is still alive." "And well?" "And well." "Very good. Now then, Der' Ali. Tell this infernal scoundrel to tell his more infernal scoundrel of a chief that if he brings in the sahib safe and well within eight days from, this, and hands him over, we will pay him another five thousand rupees; but if any harm happens to him, then the _Sirkar_ will never rest until he has hung him and every man Jack of the gang--hung 'em in pigskins, by God, and burnt them afterwards. What does he say to that?" Der' Ali, being judicious, substituted courteous epithets for the naturally explosive ones which his master had directed at Umar Khan, and Der' Ali, being a Moslem himself, refrained from repeating in plain terms so shocking a reference as that of which the blunt Feringhi had not scrupled to make use, substituting for it mysterious and sinister hints as to death by hanging under its most dreaded form. Ihalil's reply was characteristically laconic. "Well, what does he say?" repeated the Colonel testily. "He say--he hears, _Huzoor_." "Are they going to bring the sahib back, Der' Ali?" "He say--he can't say, _Huzoor_," answered the interpreter, having elicited that terse reply. "Tell him to go to the devil, then," said the Colonel, unable to resist an angry stamp of the foot. Der' Ali rendered this as--"Go in peace," and Ihalil, uttering an impassive "Salaam," mounted his camel, and--did so. They watched the form of the retreating Baluchi, fast becoming a mere white speck in the desert waste with every stride of his camel, and shook their heads despondently. Would these wolves ever release their prey? Bhallu Khan was of a kindred tribe. What did he think of the chances? But the old forester, who, like most barbarians or semi-barbarians, always answer what they imagine the inquirers would like best to hear, replied that he thought the chances were good. All men loved money--even the sahibs would rather have plenty than little-- he interpolated with a whimsical smile. Baluchi loved money too. Umar Khan would probably release his prisoner if plenty of rupees were offered him. But the eight days became fifteen, and still of the said prisoner there was no sign; and the fortnight grew into weeks, with like result. Then those interested in Campian's fate felt gloomy indeed. They had almost abandoned hope. But whatever private woes and trials, the world rubs on as usual. Shalalai at large was not particularly interested in Campian's fate, except as an item of political excitement. It was far more interested in the capture or destruction of Umar Khan than in the rescue or murder of his prisoner; for that bold outlaw had set up something of a scare. That sort of outbreak was catching among these fierce, fanatical, predatory races, and it struck home. Shooting parties became decidedly nervous, and fewer withal; and those delightful, moonlight bicycling picnics, miles out along the smooth, level, military road, were given up as unsafe--for did not the Brahui villages dotting the plain on either side contain scowling, shaggy, sword-wearing ruffians in plenty, and was there not a wave of restlessness heaving through the lot? Fleming was one of those who decided that his own affairs were of paramount importance to himself; wherefore he continued to pay assiduous court to Nesta Cheriton. But the girl seemed to have altered somehow. She had grown quite subdued, not to say serious. The old, gay, sparkling high spirits were seldom there. Fleming, turning things over, shook a gloomy head, then dismissed his fears as absurd. Could it be there was anything between Campian and herself? They had perforce been thrown together a lot in Upward's camp--moreover, when he and Bracebrydge had left, they had left the other behind them. Had he improved the shining hour then? Fleming recalled the _tangi_ adventure, and swore to himself; but he soon recovered, and the restoration of his equanimity was effected through the agency of his looking-glass. It was too damned absurd, he told himself, surveying his really good-looking face and well-knit soldierly figure--that any girl could prefer a dry old stick like Campian, and a mere civilian at that--so, giving his gallant moustache an additional twist or two eyewards, he concluded to start off and place the matter beyond a doubt. But on reaching Upward's bungalow ill chance awaited him. Nesta was not alone, and her mood was unpropitious. What was that? He could hardly believe his ears. She was depreciating--yes, actually depreciating--the British Army. "I don't know what is the use of all these soldiers here in Shalalai," she was saying as he came in. "Thousands of them. How many are there, Captain Fleming? How many soldiers have we got in Shalalai?" "Oh, about five thousand--of all sorts." "About five thousand," she repeated, "horse, foot, and artillery, and yet a dozen ragged Pathans can race about the country, killing people at will." "That everlasting Umar Khan, I suppose?" said Fleming, somewhat shortly, for he was not a little nettled at her disparaging, almost jeering, tone. "I think he _is_ going to be the `everlasting' Umar Khan," she retorted quickly. "Why don't some of you try and catch him, Captain Fleming? There are enough of you, at any rate." "We must wait for orders, Miss Cheriton," he replied stiffly. "If I were a man, and a soldier, I wouldn't wait for orders if there was anything of that sort to be done," she retorted, with delightful inconsistency. "I'd get leave to raise a troop, and I'd never rest till I brought in that Ghazi. All our jolly bicycle picnics are knocked on the head, and then Mr Upward has constantly to go into camp, and of course Mrs Upward will insist on going with him, and--I'm very fond of her." Fleming, who had been twirling his moustache eyeward somewhat viciously, suddenly quit that refuge for the perturbed. An idea had struck him. By George, it was not merely on Campian's account she wanted Umar Khan run to earth! Vastly relieved, he said: "There's a good deal in what you say, Miss Cheriton. I must think out how the thing may be done." Then he talked on other and indifferent matters, and shortly took his leave. Meanwhile the bi-annual _jirgeh_, or tribal council, was in progress at Shalalai, and representatives of all the tribes and clans and septs gathered daily in the durbar hall to meet the _Sirkar_ and ventilate grievances and settle disputes, and in short to discuss matters generally between themselves and the Executive. Stately chiefs and their retinues--tall, dignified men, picturesque in their snowy turbans and long hair and flowing beards, wending thither beneath the plane-shaded avenue--passed in strange contrast the dapper sub skimming along on his bicycle, or fashionably attired ladies in their high-wheeled dogcart flashing by at a hard trot, bound for club or gymkhana ground. Such, however, they eyed as impassively as they did the crowd of low caste Hindus which thronged the bazaar; for the training of their wild desert home had left no room for the display of emotions. Now and then, recognising some official, they might utter a grave "Salaam," accompanied by a slight raising of the hand, but that was all. A contrast indeed! The unchanging East, in its melancholy dignity and fund of awe-suggesting power--because power held in the mystery of reserve--jostled by fussy, domineering, up-to-date civilisation; the fierce, wild, untamable spirits masked by those copper-hued and dignified countenances, side by side with the careless, pleasure loving, yet intensely pushing and practical temperament underlying the fresh, tawny-haired Anglo-Saxon faces. Even the very headgear suggested a vivid contrast--the multitudinous folds of the snowy and graceful turban expressive of absence of all capacity for flurry--cool deliberateness, repose, wisdom--even as the cock of the perky "bowler" seemed a very object lesson in itself of push and bounce and "there-to-stay" tenacity. Now and then one or two of the sirdars would visit Upward to talk officially on forest matters in their respective districts, or to view his multifold trophies of the chase, which keenly interested them. These visits Upward encouraged, hoping to learn something of Campian's fate. But it was of no avail. Of the massacre at Mehriab station, and the doings of Umar Khan in general, the wily Asiatics professed the profoundest ignorance, not with effusive reiteration, but in a grave, nonchalant, dignified way, as though the matter were entirely unworthy of their notice or cognisance, once and for all. But to Vivien Wymer, who never lost an opportunity of studying these people, such visits were of untold interest; moreover, they seemed to result in a certain degree of hope renewed. These stately, courteous-mannered potentates had not got cruel faces. There was a noble look about most of them, even a benevolent one. Surely these were not the men to sanction a coldblooded murder. Meanwhile, during the _jirgeh_, the matter of Umar Khan was receiving the full attention of the Executive. It was one thing for the chiefs to protest ignorance in private and unofficial conversation with Upward, with whom, diplomatically, they had no earthly concern. Carefully and with due deliberation the authorities narrowed the net--and it was decided to arrest Yar Hussain Khan, who, as the outlaw's feudal chief, was responsible for his behaviour--and a sirdar of the Brahuis who was proved to have sheltered and screened him. The chiefs in question made no trouble over the decision of the _Sirkar_. With Oriental impassibility they accepted the situation, and were placed under guard accordingly. But two nights later Umar Khan swooped down upon a Levy post within ten miles of Shalalai, surprised and massacred the handful of Hindu sepoys in charge, and rolled a couple of field pieces down the mountain side, retiring as swiftly as he had appeared: while the Brahui clans in the neighbourhood began to make themselves disagreeable by various small acts of aggression which rendered it unsafe to venture many miles beyond the lines. Things began to look uncommonly lively in and about that station containing five thousand troops--horse, foot and artillery. CHAPTER TWENTY. AT DARKEST HOUR. Away in the Kharawan desert the dust columns are whirling heavenward in many a tall spiral shaft; more like the hissing steam jets of some vast geyser than anything so dry and unadhesible as mere sand. A dead flat level, stretching afar into misty distance on the skyline on every hand--its only vegetation a low scrubby attempt at growth; the fierce sun at a white heat overhead; the sky as brass--what life can this awful wilderness by any possibility support? Yet so wonderful, so inexhaustible are the resources of Nature that even here both man and beast can fare along, and that moderately well. Camels, with their loads, kneel on the sand, resting from their labours; with their ugly heads and weird snaky necks and unceasing guttural snarling roar, conveying the idea of hideous antediluvian monsters somehow or other forgotten by the Flood in this desert waste. A flock of black goats, cropping daintily at the sparse attempt at herbage, or crouching in groups chewing the cud, represents the other phase of animal life there, unless three or four gaunt Pathan curs employed at assisting to herd the same. Here and there a tent, or mere shelter of tanned camel hide, blackened by the heat of innumerable suns, stretched upon poles, affords a modicum of shelter from the arid baking heat. It is the hour of prayer. Grouped together the believers are kneeling-- facing towards the holy city; whose exact direction they have a marvellous faculty for determining with accuracy. As one man they sink down in their twofold prostration, forehead to the earth, then rise again, and the droning hum of voices goes out upon the shimmer of the scorching air. One, in front of the rest, leads the devotions, a little, shrunken, aged figure, and by his side is another, but it is the form of a man in all the vigour of his prime. With more than ordinary unction the prescribed formulae are repeated. No abstraction or looking round is here, such as the faithful when individually devout may occasionally give way to. Perhaps it is the holy character and reputation of the leader that ensures this edifying result, for the Syyed Hadji Ain Asraf is justly invested with both of these. He who prays side by side with this pillar and prop of Moslem orthodoxy is arrayed like the rest. His white turban, cool and voluminous in its folds, is the same as that of these swarthy copper-hued sons of the desert--so, too, are the graceful flowing garments and chudda, in which he is clad. His shoes are off his feet, and his prostrations and general attitude differ in no wise from those employed by the other devotees--the outcome of a lifetime's habit. Yet, as the orisons over, all rise and resume their shoes and their wonted and work-a-day demeanour, a close observer might well notice that this is no fanatical son of the Orient but a man of Anglo-Saxon blood--in short, none other than Howard Campian. How then is it that the part has come to him so easily? He had professed Islam, it is true; but that as a mere expedient to save himself from the murderous blades of Umar Khan and his followers. Yet it is strange how the varying phases of life will unconsciously affect the man who is accustomed to pass through many of them. Your wooden headed, groove-compressed John Bull, in his stay-at-home, stick-in-the-mud-ishness, is impervious to any such impressions. He is too devoid of sympathy for the ideas of any other living soul, for one thing. But the true cosmopolitan, the globe wanderer, whose wanderings leave him more and more with an open mind, can see things differently, can even realise that the multifold races and tongues and creeds who inhabit this earth do not necessarily do so on gracious sufferance of John Bull aforesaid, with whom, by the way, they have not the shadow of an idea in common. It happened that Campian had some acquaintance with the Koran, in fact possessed an English translation of the sacred volume; a circumstance which stood him in right good stead with those who held him in durance. The faith of Islam had always struck him as a rational creed, moral and orderly, with the claims of a fair amount of antiquity behind it; wherefore now, under duress and as a matter of expediency, no great shock was entailed upon him in subscribing its tenets. Besides, his profession of faith involved no denial of any article of faith he might previously have held. The assertion that Mohammed was the prophet of God seemed not an outrageous one, looking at the fact that the stupendous creed, founded or revealed by the seer of Mecca, held and swayed countless millions, who for sheer devoutness, consistency to their own profession, and the grandeur of unity, could give large points to the cute, up-to-date Christian with his one day's piety and six days' fraud, and his jangling discord of multifold sects. He was a good bit of a natural actor, wherefore, having a part to play, he identified himself with it, and played it thoroughly. Partly from motives of convenience, for his own clothing had undergone wild, rough treatment of late, partly from those of expediency, he had adopted the dress of his custodians, and his dark, sunbrowned face, clear cut features and full beard, framed in the white voluminous turban, was quite as the face of one of themselves. Only the eyes seemed to betray the Anglo-Saxon, yet blue or grey eyes are not uncommon among some of the Afghan tribes. It is by no means certain that his profession of faith would have availed to save his life at the rancorous hands of Umar Khan--that lawless freebooter being impatient of the claims of creed when they conflicted with his own strong inclinations--but for the interference of the Syyed Ain Asraf. The dictum of the latter, however, especially in a matter of faith, was not to be gainsaid. Not by halves, either, had the Syyed done things. He rejoiced over his new convert, insuring for him good treatment, and, in short, everything but liberty. We have just stated that Campian possessed a translation of the Koran, and the fact that he did so seemed a mark to all that his was no sudden forced conversion. He had evidently been making a study of their holy religion, as the Syyed pointed out. To this lead Campian assiduously played up. The volume was at the bungalow of the Colonel Sahib, where he had been staying, he explained, and thither he prevailed on them to accompany him, in order to fetch it. Nor was that all, for he made use of the circumstance to prevail upon them to spare the house, as having contained a volume of the sacred book, and under whose roof had come many inspirations which had led to his conversion. They had looted the place somewhat, but had refrained from doing much real damage. The Syyed Ain Asraf then, had taken his proselyte completely under his wing, and, through the interpreting agency of Buktiar Khan, was never tired of instructing him in all the tenets and rules and discipline of Islam. This was not altogether unwelcome to the said proselyte, and that for diverse reasons. For one thing the subject really interested him, and greatly did it beguile the tedium and hardship of his captivity: for another he was anxious to establish the friendliest relationship with the old Syyed. The name had recalled itself to his recollection the moment he heard it uttered. This was the other name mentioned in connection with the treasure and the ruby sword--Syyed Ain Asraf, the brother of the fugitive Durani chief, Dost Hussain Khan. Did this old man know? Was he in the secret, or had all clue been lost? Again, did that mysterious chest, so startlingly, so grimly lighted upon by himself, actually contain that rare and priceless treasure? Often would Campian's thoughts go back to those awful hours spent hanging over the black depths of the chasm. Often would he wonder whether the discovery was an actual fact, or a dream, a phantasmagoria of his state of over-wrought mind and body, and in the hot glare of the desert he would shade his eyes as though the better to live over again those hours of horror and of pitchy gloom. But when he would have liked to sound the old Syyed on the subject, that curse, the barrier of language, would come in. Save for a smattering of the most ordinary words, which he had picked up, Campian could only communicate through the agency of Buktiar Khan, and Buktiar Khan was at best but a slippery scoundrel, and totally untrustworthy where a matter of such passing importance was involved. Campian had long since given up his first idea, viz: that he was being held as a hostage, to be released on payment of the stipulated five thousand rupees. That sum he knew had been paid, duly as to time and conditions, but to his representations that he should be set at liberty the reply was consistently short and to the point. It was not in the _bundobust_. So he made up his mind to bide his time patiently, keep his eyes and ears open, pick up as much of the language as he could, and pursue his studies of the Koran under the tuition of his now spiritual guide, Ain Asraf. That venerable saint found in him a most promising neophyte--and through the agency of the ex-chuprassi they would hold long theological debates on this or that point of faith, or the exact interpretation of the words of the Prophet, wherein the Moslem doctors were wont to read diverse or ambiguous meaning; and the cheap and spick and span English translation formed yet one more of those strange life contrasts beside the yellow parchment scroll covered with its Arabic text--while the Syyed, with the aid of pebbles placed out, or squares and circles described in the dust, strove to convey to his disciple some idea of the configuration of the holy city and the inviolable temple; the sacred Caaba and the stone of Abraham. Strange and wild had been Campian's experiences during the long weeks-- months now--since his recapture. His jauntily-expressed self gratulation on the prospect of seeing something of the inner life of the Baluchis he can remember now with a rueful smile. Hurried here and hurried there--now freezing among bleak mountain-tops, now roasting on the waterless desert: subsisting on food perfectly abominable to civilised palate, and housed in low square huts, the nocturnal gambols of whose multifold tenantry tried his as yet scanty stock of Moslem patience--in truth he has had enough and to spare of such experiences. So interminable and tortuous withal have been his wanderings that at the present moment he has not the least idea as to his whereabouts, or whether Shalalai is north, south, east, or west, or far or near--or indeed anything about it. One redeeming point about the situation is that after the first week of his captivity nothing more has been seen of Umar Khan. That obnoxious ruffian had disappeared as effectually as though death or his own free will had severed his connection with the band. With the additional security the absence of the arch-brigand brought to him, there came fits of terrible depression. What was going to be the end of all this, and whither did they purpose to convey him? Northward, to wild untrodden regions of Afghanistan or Persia when the band should find it expedient to flee thither--and, what then? Sooner or later the enmity of Umar Khan would take effect in his murder, secret or open. And he was so helpless, for though, as we have said, he had adopted their costume as well as their creed, and was suffered to go out and in among them at will, never by any chance did his custodians allow him aught in the shape of a weapon. And now, as we see him here in the heart of the Kharawan desert, after the hour of prayer, the old Syyed for the twentieth time and with unswerving patience and copious diagram is explaining the exact position of the stone of Abraham and its distance from the holy Caaba, he makes up his mind to try and break the ice. "Ask the Syyed, Buktiar," he says, "who was the Sirdar Dost Hussain Khan?" But before the ex-chuprassi can put the question, a light dawns over the aged face. As the question is put it deepens and glows. "Ya--Allah!" he responds, raising hands and eyes heavenward. "His soul is in the rim of Paradise, my son. Yet, what knowest thou of Dost Hussain Khan?" Campian debated a moment or so what reply to make. There was nothing suspicious about this, for Orientals are never in a hurry. But he was spared the necessity of replying at all, for a diversion occurred which threw the camp into a state of wild excitement. Away on the skyline a cloud of dust was rising. Onward it swept at a great rate of speed, whirling heavenward; and through it the tossing of horses' heads, and the white turbans of their riders. The dust cloud whirled over them. Recovering from the momentary blindness of its effect, Campian beheld a score and a half of wild Baluchis dashing up on horseback. A dozen of these had leaped from their steeds, and--yes--they were coming straight for him. He had no weapon, yet in that flash of time he noticed that not a tulwar was drawn. They flung themselves upon him, bore him to the earth by sheer weight of numbers, and in a trice he was powerless, bound fast in a cruelly painful attitude, being in fact trussed up in such wise as to be brought as nearly into the shape of a huge ball as the human frame is capable of being brought. Nor was this all. They rammed a gag into his mouth--a horrible gag composed of a wedge of wood covered with very dirty rag--and in this plight he was hauled to one of the kneeling camels, and, literally turned into a bale by being wrapped in sacking, was loaded up among the other packages upon the animal's back. The agony of it was excruciating. Every bone in his body ached with the distortion of the enforced and unwonted attitude. The rack would have been a joke to it. Moreover, what with the filthy gag, and the sacking which covered him, he was more than half suffocated. Flames danced and reeled before his eyes--his brain was bursting. Then a couple of sickening lurches and jolt--jolt--jolt. The roaring, snarling animal had risen and was proceeding at its ordinary pace--and now, in addition to the torture of his strained attitude, the jolting impact of the other packages seemed in danger of crushing the life out of him against the pack saddle. Wherefore this outrage? A moment before, free, comparatively almost one of themselves, and now--What was the meaning of this abominable treatment? Ha! What was that? The trampling of horses--the rush of many hoofs-- nearer and nearer. Now it was thundering around--and racked, suffocated, half dead, in his agonising and ignominious position, the blood rushed tingling through the unfortunate man's frame, for over and above the sudden tumult rose a loud English voice. Rescue at last! In his sore and painful plight, he nearly fainted with the revulsion of the thought. "Tell the devils to stop," it cried. "Now, Sohrab, ask them who they are, and all about themselves." And he who listened there helpless, recognised the fresh, bluff voice. It was that of his quondam camp-mate--Fleming. If only he could make his presence known--but that noisome gag rendered all sound as impossible as his bonds rendered movement. He heard the question put by the Baluchi interpreter, likewise the long-winded reply. Then another English voice--an impatient one. "I believe we'd better push on, Fleming. These devils'll take half the day jawing here. I'm dead certain that was Umar Khan himself in that crowd just now, and they'll have nearly half an hour's start of us. Let's get on, say I." "I don't know quite what to do, Sinclair," said the first voice. "I've a good mind to overhaul these chaps' loads. There might be some clue in them--some bit of loot perhaps--which might be a guide to us." Heavens! How the wretched prisoner strained and tugged at his bonds. If he could but loosen that diabolical gag ever so slightly! He could see in imagination the whole scene--the two English officers at the head of their native troopers; the sullen, scowling Baluchis standing by their camels hardly deigning to do more than barely answer the questions put to them; then the impatience of the subaltern shading his eyes to gaze horizon-ward--and the more cautious, reflective countenance of the captain. Yes, he could see it all. Rescue, within a yard of him! Great God! was it to reach him--to touch him, and yet pass him by? He strained at his bonds till his eyes seemed to burst from his head. One sound would bring him immediate rescue, immediate freedom--yet not by a hair's-breadth would that devilish gag relax its constraint. "Pho! What could we find that would help us?" rejoined the impatient voice of the subaltern. "And every moment Umar Khan is putting another mile of this infernal desert between him and us." The argument seemed to weigh. The sharp, crisp word to advance--the rattle of sabres and the jingle of bits; the thud of the troop-horses' feet, and the swish of the thrown-up sand--all told its own tale to the ears of the wretched prisoner as the troop swept onward, literally within a couple of yards of him, and soon died away. Then the renewed jolt--jolt, told that the camels had resumed their interrupted march. It was the last straw. Physical anguish and mental revulsion proved too much. The unfortunate man lost all consciousness in a dead swoon. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. THE DURANI RING. When he awoke to consciousness Campian realised that he was lying on a charpoy, within a low, mud-plastered room. His limbs were no longer bound, but his whole frame ached from head to foot with a racking pain. With the first attempt to move he groaned, and once more closed his eyes. That last fearful ordeal had been too much for nerve and brain. Even now, as he awoke, the recollection of it came back with a rush. A slight rustling and the sound of a quiet footstep caused him to look forth once more. A bearded, long-haired Baluchi was standing beside the bed with an earthen bowl in his hand. "_Kaha Syyed Ain Asraf hai_?" queried Campian. But the man only shook his head, set down the bowl, and departed. He drank the contents, which consisted of slightly curdled goat's milk, and feeling vastly better, made up his mind to rise. The turban he had before worn was lying beside him. Twisting it on, he sallied forth. The sun was sky high, but the air was no longer the scorching breath of the desert. It was fresh, almost cool. As he looked around he could see the towering head of a mountain beyond the line of roof. A sort of labyrinth of mud-walls confronted and puzzled him, but of inhabitants he saw not a soul. Making his way carefully forward he came upon an open space, but walled in all round; in fact, he seemed to be in a kind of walled village, and of the surrounding country nothing could he descry but the mountain overhead. Several savage looking Baluchis stood or squatted in groups. These muttered a sulky "salaam," but their faces were all strange to him; not one among them seemed to have been of the party amid which his lot had formerly been cast. Women, too, here and there were visible--that is to say, their clothing was, for their closely drawn chuddas, with the two circular, barred eyeholes, conveyed to the spectator no sort of idea as to whether the face within was young or old, pretty or hideous, comely or hag-like. Again he inquired for the old Syyed, only to meet with the same unconcerned headshake. The mention of Buktiar Khan met with no more satisfactory result. This was bad. The cross-eyed ex-chuprassi, slippery scoundrel as he might be, was, at any rate, somebody to talk to, and, furthermore, a valuable mouthpiece. For the kind-hearted old Syyed he had conceived a genuine regard, and it was with something like a real pang of regret that he missed the benevolent face and paternal manner of that venerable saint. But, more important than all, he missed the feeling of protection and security which the latter's presence had inspired, and which, he realised with a qualm, he might only too soon need; for a more forbidding, murderous looking set of ruffians than the men who inhabited this village he thought he had never in his life beheld. Two of these, engaged in their devotions, on one side of the square, attracted his attention. Moved by a desire to propitiate, he went over to them, and putting off his shoes, spread his chudda beside them and began to do likewise. And now, for the first time--realising his insecurity, and missing the presence of his kind old preceptor--in his strait and loneliness, a kind of reality seemed to come into the formula; and bowing himself down towards Mecca, he felt that this creed which unified the hearts of millions and millions might even be ordered so as to form a link of brotherhood between himself and the fierce hearts of those surrounding him--and, let it come from whatever source it might, the inspiration was a sustaining one. He arose with renewed confidence--even something of renewed hope. Such, however, was not destined to last. As the days went by the demeanour of those around grew more and more hostile--at times even threatening. They would hardly reply to his civil and brotherly "salaam," and would scowl evilly at him even during prayer. It began to get upon his nerves. And well it might. In the first place he was a close prisoner, never being suffered to go outside the loop-holed walls, and the want of exercise told upon his health. Then, he had no idea as to where he was, or for what purpose he was being kept: that it was with the object of ransom he had more than begun to abandon hope, since the weeks had dragged into months, and yet no sign from the outside world. Into months--for there were signs of approaching winter now. The peak of the overhanging mountain took on more than one cap of powdery snow, and the air, at nights, became piercingly cold. And then with the growing hostility of those around, he framed a theory that they were but awaiting the return of Umar Khan to put him to death, with such adjuncts of cruelty as that implacable barbarian might feel moved to devise. Would his fate ever be known? Why should it? Orientals were as close as death when they chose to keep anything a mystery. But what mattered whether it were known or not? Vivien? She would soon forget--or find some "duty" to console her, he told himself in all the bitterness fostered by his unnerved and strained state. No--but of her he would not think; and this resolve, framed from the earliest stage of his captivity, he had persistently observed. He needed all his strength, all his philosophy. To dwell upon thoughts of her--only regained in order to be re-lost--had a perilous tendency to sap both. All manner of wild ideas of escape would come to him, only to be dismissed. He had made one attempt, and failed. If that had been unsuccessful--near home, so to say, and in country he knew--what sort of success would crown any such effort here in a wild and unknown region, which, for aught he knew, might be hundreds of miles from any European centre? To fail again would render his condition infinitely worse, even if it did not entail his death. At last something occurred. It was just after the hour of morning prayer. A sound struck full upon his ears. Away over the desert it came--the long cracking roll of a rifle volley. Then another, followed by a few scattered and dropping shots. Others had heard it, too, and were peering through the loopholes in the outer wall. Faint and far it was, but approaching--oh, yes, surely approaching. Rescue? Surely this time it was. A clue to his whereabouts had been found, and the search expedition had discovered him at last. The blood surged hotly in his veins at the thought--but--with it came another. Would these barbarians allow him to leave their midst alive? Not likely. Then a plan formulated itself in his mind. He would retire to the room he occupied and barricade the door. That would allow his deliverers time to appear in force. So far, however, the people within the village fort made no hostile movement towards him. They seemed to have forgotten his presence, so engrossed were they in observing what might be going on outside. At last, however, the gates were thrown open to admit three men on camels, supporting a fourth. Him they lowered carefully to the ground, a fresh stream of blood welling forth from his wounds as they did so, crimsoning his dirty white garments; and, in the grim, drawn countenance, with its set teeth and glazing eyes, Campian recognised the lineaments of Ihalil Mohammed. The man was dying. Nothing but the tenacity of a son of the desert and the mountain would have supported him thus far, with two Lee-Metford bullets through his vitals. There he lay, however, the sands of life ebbing fast, the very moments of his fierce, lawless, predatory career numbered. "You take care. Baluchi very cross," murmured a voice, in English, at Campian's side. No need had he to turn to recognise in it that of Buktiar Khan. The warning was needed--yet even then, fully alive to his peril, he could not forbear hurriedly asking what had happened. As hurriedly the ex-chuprassi told him; which he was able to do while loosening the saddle girths of his camel, the attention of the others, too, being occupied with the dying man. A body of native horse led by two English officers had come up to a neighbouring village, but the _malik_ who ruled it had refused to allow them the use of the wells. The cavalry had persisted, and then the Baluchis had fired upon them. There had been a fight, and then a parley, and the English officers had set off in pursuit of Umar Khan, who had been present until he saw how things were going with his countrymen. "No. The sahibs not come here. Umar Khan go right the other way," concluded Buktiar. "But--you take care--Baluchi very cross." If ever there was point in a warning it was at that moment. Several of those around Ihalil turned their heads and were eyeing the prisoner ominously. The dying brigand, too, with hate in his glassy stare, seemed to be muttering curses and menace, then with a last effort, spat full in his direction. It was as though a signal had been given. Campian, however, was quick and resourceful in his strait. In a flash, as it were, he had whirled Buktiar's tulwar from its scabbard as the ex-chuprassi was still leaning over his camel-gear, and with a rapid cut had slashed the face of the foremost of the ferocious crew which now hurled itself, howling, upon him. Then two or three quick bounds backward and he was within his apartment, with the door banged to, and the charpoy and a heavy chest which stood in the room so wedged against it that it could not be forced by any method short of knocking out the opposite wall. For a while the hubbub was appalling, as the infuriated Baluchis hurled themselves against the door, bellowing forth terrific shouts and curses. The beleaguered man within stood there, his tulwar raised, panting violently with the excitement and exertion, prepared to sell his life at the price of several, for a desperate man armed with a tulwar and driven to bay, is no joke--to the several. Then there was a sudden silence. Campian, with every faculty of hearing strained, was speculating what new device they would adopt to get at him. He had no hope now. It was only a question of time. Then Buktiar's voice made itself heard, calling out in English: "You come out I'sirdar--he want speak with you." "Sirdar? What sirdar? Oh, skittles! You don't come it over me with that thin yarn, Buktiar," replied Campian, with a reckless laugh, evolved from the sheer hopelessness of his position. "No. I speak true. I'sirdar--he just come--I'sirdar Yar Hussain Khan." "Umar Khan, you mean--eh?" "No--not Umar Khan. Yar Hussain--big sirdar of Marri." "How am I to know if this fellow is lying or not?" soliloquised Campian aloud. "See here, Buktiar. You're a damned fool if you don't do all you can for me. You know I promised you a thousand rupees." "I know, sahib. This time I speak true. You come out or I'sirdar p'r'aps get angry and go away." Campian resolved to risk it. Therein lay a chance--otherwise there was none. Cautiously, yet concealing his caution, he flung open the door, and stepped boldly forth, his very intrepidity begotten of the extremity of his strait. No. The ex-chuprassi had not lied. Standing there, his immediate retinue grouped behind him, was a tall, stately figure. Campian recognised him at a glance. It was the Marri sirdar, Yar Hussain Khan. Behind the group several horses were standing, the chief's spirited mount, with its ornate saddle cloth and trappings, being led up and down the square by one of the young Baluchis. Not a weapon was raised as the beleaguered man stepped forth. The village people stood around, sullen and scowling. "Salaam, Sirdar sahib!" said Campian advancing, having shifted the tulwar, with which he would not part, to the left hand. "Buktiar, remind the chief, that when we met before, at the jungle-wallah sahib's camp, he said he would be glad to see me in his village, and--here I am." And he extended his right hand. But Yar Hussain did not respond with any cordiality to this advance, indeed at first it seemed as though he were going to repel it altogether. However, he returned the proffered handshake, though coldly--and the sternness of his strong, dignified countenance in no wise relaxed as he uttered a frigid "salaam." Then a magical change flashed across his features, and his eyes lit up. Throwing his head back, he stared at the astonished Campian. "Put forth thy hand again, Feringhi," he said, in a quick, deep tone, as though mastering some strong emotion. Wondering greatly--as the request was translated by Buktiar--Campian complied. And now he saw light. What had attracted the chief's attention was a ring he wore--a quaint Eastern ring, in which was set a greenish stone covered with strange characters. "Where obtainedst thou this?" inquired Yar Hussain, still in the deep tones of eager excitement, his eyes fixed upon the ring. "From my father, to whom it was presented by an Afghan sirdar whose life he was the means of saving. It was supposed to bring good fortune to all who wore it. Have you ever seen a similar one, Sirdar sahib?" But for answer there broke from several of those on either hand of the chief, and who, with heads bent forward, were gazing upon the circlet, hurried ejaculations. "The Durani ring!" they exclaimed. "Yes, Allah is great. The Durani ring!" They stared at the circlet, then at its wearer, then at the ring again, and broke forth into renewed exclamations. Yar Hussain the while seemed as though turned into stone. Finally, recovering himself he said: "This is a matter that needs talking over. We will discuss it within." At these words the _malik_ of the village fort, with much deference, marshalled the sirdar to his own house. With him went Campian and two or three followers. Buktiar Khan, to his unmitigated disappointment, was left outside. When they were seated--this time comfortably on cushions, for this room was very different in its appointments to the bare, squalid one which had been allotted to the prisoner hitherto--one of the Baluchis addressed Campian in excellent English, to the latter's unbounded astonishment. "The sirdar would like to hear the story of that ring," he said. "You need not fear to talk, sir. I am his half brother. I learnt English at Lahore when I was Queen's soldier, so I tell the sirdar again all you say." Decidedly this was better than being dependent on an unreliable scamp such as Buktiar Khan, and Campian felt quite relieved. For somehow he realised that his peril was over--probably his oft repeated trials and wearing captivity, but that might depend upon his own diplomacy, and what deft use he might make of the circumstance of the ring. For a few moments he sat silent and pondering. The story of the ring was so bound up with that of the ruby sword and the hidden treasure that it was difficult to tell the one without revealing the other. The information which he himself possessed declared that the only man who would be likely to know anything about the matter was the Syyed Ain Asraf. He, however, had not recognised the ring. Could there be two Syyeds Ain Asraf? Then he remembered that Yar Hussain was of Afghan descent. Did he know anything of the hiding of the treasure, or at any rate where it was hidden? The first was possible, the second hardly likely, or he would almost certainly have removed it. "What was the name of the Durani sirdar?" asked Yar Hussain at last. "Dost Hussain Khan," replied Campian. "He is my father," said the chief, "and he rests on the rim of Paradise. There is truth in thy statement, O Feringhi, who--they tell me--art now a believer. He was saved by a Feringhi, and an unbeliever, yet a brave and true man, and for him and his we never cease to pray." "Then are we brothers, Sirdar," said Campian, "for the man who saved the life of thy father is my father." The astonishment depicted on the faces of those who heard this statement was indescribable. "Ya Allah!" cried the chief, raising hands and eyes to heaven. "Wonderful are Thy ways! Hast thou a token, Feringhi?" "Is not that of the ring sufficient?" returned Campian, purposely simulating offence. "If not, listen. The Sirdar Dost Hussain Khan, when pressed by his enemies, concealed his treasures, principal among which was a ruby hilted sword of wellnigh priceless value. This treasure is lost. None know of its whereabouts to this day." The chief's kinsman, whose name was Sohrab Khan, hardly able to mask his own amazement, translated this. An emphatic assent went up from all who heard. "The treasure was enclosed in a strong chest of dark wood, three cubits in length, covered with words from the blessed Koran, and clamped with heavy brass bindings," went on Campian. "The Durani sirdar was killed by the Brahuis. And now, why has the secret of its whereabouts been lost? Does not the Syyed Ain Asraf know of it?" The astonishment on the faces of those who heard found outlet in a vehement negative. Then Sohrab Khan explained. The Syyed, he said, knew nothing. All that the Feringhi, now a believer, had said was true. But the Sirdar Yar Hussain Khan would fain repurchase the ring, because there was a tradition in their house that its gift to an unbeliever--good and brave man as that unbeliever was--had caused the disappearance of the treasure. When it was recovered the secret of the whereabouts of the ruby sword and the other valuables would be revealed. Would five thousand rupees repurchase it? To this Campian returned no immediate answer. He was turning the matter over in his mind--not that of the sale and the proffered price, for on that head his mind was clear. Of whatever value this lost property might be, these people, and they alone, had any claim to it. There was a strange fatality about the way they had been enabled to save his life, and that at the most critical moments--first the Syyed Ain Asraf when the sword of Umar Khan was raised above his defenceless head--now the arrival of Yar Hussain and his following in time to rescue him from the savage vengeance of the friends and kinsmen of Ihalil. His father had foregone any claim upon the treasure, even when a share of it was proffered him by the grateful potentate whose life he had saved; and now he, too, meant to make no claim. He had ample for his own needs--all he asked was restoration to liberty. Yet even for this he did not stipulate. "Listen," he said at length, and during the time occupied by his meditations it was characteristic that no word or sign of impatience escaped those dignified Orientals, notwithstanding the grave import of the matter under discussion. "It seems that the tradition relating to the recovery of the ring is one of truth. For if it was given to an unbeliever--albeit a brave and true man--now is it recovered by a believer. See"--holding out his hand, so that all might see the green stone and its cabalistic characters--"see--am I not one of yourselves? And now, O my brother, Yar Hussain Khan, I will restore unto thee this treasure, even I; for it hath been revealed unto me. I have described it and the chest which containeth it. Now, let us fare forth to the valley called Kachin that thou mayest possess it once more." CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. THE RUBY SWORD. As they rode forth from the village fort, and its gates closed behind them, Campian could not but once more realise the strangeness of life, and the sudden and unexpected turns the wheel of fate will take. He had entered in a state of swooning unconsciousness, swung, in agonising and ignominious attitude, one bale among the many which constitute a camel's load. Now he rode forth at the right hand of the powerful Marri sirdar, whose honoured guest and almost blood-brother he had become, and that by a fortuitous chance which partook of the nature of a triviality. He was mounted on a fine steed, and his worn and dingy garments had been replaced, as though by magic, by the finest and snowiest of raiment-- even to one of the chief's highly ornamented vests of state. How good it was to breathe again the air of freedom. Even the desert waste in its wide expanse, the jagged treeless mountain peaks, took on all manner of soft and changing lights in the golden glow of the cloudless afternoon. Soon his terrible experiences would be as a dream of the past. No impatience was upon him now. Life had taught him a certain amount of philosophy, and so completely had he identified himself with the part he had for months past been forced to sustain, that something of the Eastern stoicism had transmitted itself to him. Now he could allow himself to think--to dwell upon those last days before the tragedy that had forced him into captivity and peril and exile. Yet, why that uneasy stirring--why that misgiving? Could it be that his impending restoration to nineteenth century life brought with it something of the cares and pains and heart-searchings of busy, up-to-date, restless, end of the century struggle after chimeras and will o' the wisps? For months now all trace of him would have been lost. He would have been given up as dead. How would Vivien accept the general opinion? Perhaps she had long since left Shalalai. He remembered their last parting well--ah, so well! But it had taken place under stress of circumstances--of circumstances abnormal and strained. In cooler moments all might have been different. And acting upon this idea he had made no stipulation or request that he should be escorted to Shalalai previous to revealing the place of concealment of the long buried treasure. He had known experience of a meeting of this sort--all the anticipation, the dwelling upon the thought thereof day and night, the figuring out of its programme, and all the rest of it--and then, when it came--mere commonplace; disappointment perhaps--not to say a strong dash of disillusionment. To reach the Kachin valley would take them some days--but Campian easily prevailed upon the sirdar to despatch a swift messenger to Shalalai announcing his safety and approaching return--and, indeed, it suited Yar Hussain's own plans to do this. We left that chief under arrest. Not long, however, was he detained. It was found practically impossible on investigation to hold him responsible for the doings of Umar Khan; moreover he represented, and with perfect truth, that the hostage's interests were likely to suffer from such detention--even if it did not entail upon him actual peril. So he was released. Even then, however, he was in an ugly and vindictive frame of mind, and whether his intervention or protection would have been extended to the captive under ordinary circumstances, it is hard to say. As it was, the mere accidental glimpse of the ring worn by Campian had worked wonders. The fact was that Campian seldom wore this ring. He had done so of late, thinking it in keeping with the Eastern dress he had assumed, but formerly he had hardly remembered that it was in his possession. Even of late, however, it had passed unnoticed, partly from the fact of Ain Asraf's sight being dim with age partly that none of those who custodied him were of the family of Dost Hussain. Fortunate, indeed, that it had been upon his finger at that critical moment. At a village on their road they fell in with Ain Asraf. The old Syyed was genuinely rejoiced at beholding his neophyte once more. The latter, in spite of his own protests, anger, menaces even, had been spirited off by the lawless and irreligious followers of Umar Khan, nor had he been able to learn his whereabouts. "Ah, my son," he said at the close of their cordial greeting, "Allah watches over His own--and His Prophet holds hell in store for they who oppress them. Yet, it is well. I may no more be with thee to instruct thee in the fair flowers of the faith. Yet forget not that Allah has delivered thee in thine extremity, and that not once." Then he signed that the hour of prayer was at hand, and all dismounted, and the same orisons--uttered alike by chief and lowest herdsman--by the upright and the criminal--by the true ally and treacherous outlaw--went up from the desert sand from that group with their faces to the setting sun. The old Syyed attached himself to their band, being readily provided, by the people of the village, with a camel, for they had no horses, and was treated with great deference by all--both as the uncle of the chief, and in his capacity of saint. Through the medium of Sohrab Khan, the English speaking Baluchi, Campian was able to while away the monotony of the road in converse. He learnt much of what had befallen since his captivity--of the arrest of the Sirdar, the anxiety as to his own fate, and the doings of Umar Khan, with whom his present friends seemed not altogether out of sympathy--in fact, he decided that if it depended upon their aid, the chances of capturing that redoubted freebooter were infinitesimal. Thus they fared onward, day after day, through _tangi_ and over _kotal_, threading deep mountain valleys, and traversing sun-baked plains; now resting for the night at mud-walled villages, now camping out in the open beneath the desert stars. The Kachin valley at last! How well he remembered its long, deep configuration. Now after his enforced wanderings over those grim deserts, even its sparse foliage was like a cool and refreshing oasis. And what experiences, strange and startling, had he not known within its narrow limits. There, above the juniper growth rose the mass of rock wherein was the markhor cave. It seemed strange to think that the face of that ordinarily rugged mountain side should contain what it did. Then a misgiving seized him. What if it should contain nothing? What if he had been allowing his over-wrought imagination to run away with him? The chest was there--no doubt about that, but what if it contained nothing more than a lot of old parchments, or a storage of ordinarily trumpery trinkets? Things might, in that event, take an awkward turn. But no, he would not believe it. The strength of the chain, the weight of the chest, the weird, unheard of place of its concealment, the care and labour involved in designing such a hiding place, all pointed to this being the object of his search. And then, too, the topographical features of the surroundings were all exactly as set forth in his father's instructions. Every piece of the puzzle seemed to fit in to a nicety. And this chief was the son of the refugee Afghan whose life his father had saved, and in the inscrutable workings of time it had come about that the debt should be repaid twofold, that his own life should be saved, first by the brother, then by the son of Dost Hussain. On the eventual slaughter of the latter by the Brahuis, Yar Hussain then an infant, had found refuge with the Marri tribe, and by dint of descent on his mother's side, had, on reaching years of manhood, claimed and seized the position he now held. All this Campian learned as they travelled along; and a very stirring--if complicated--tale of Eastern intrigue, and fierce, ruthless tribal feud it was. A feeling of awe was upon the party as they entered the gloomy crack which constituted the portal of the now historic markhor cave. Upon the Baluchis the superstitious associations which clustered round the place had their effect. The Syyed Ain Asraf was muttering copious exorcisms and adjurations from the sacred book, and the wild desert warriors were overawed at the thought that here was about to be unfolded that which had been placed there by the hands of those long since dead. Upon the European, however, the associations were multifold. That first exploration of the cave, the chance arrival of Vivien Wymer, and their long, quiet talk as they investigated it together all came back to him. Then the tragedy, his escape, and the hours he had spent hanging in the very mouth of that hideous gulf--here again the hidden hoard of the dead chief had been instrumental in preserving the life of his rescuer's son, for what would the latter have done but for the resting place afforded by the chain and that which it supported, whit time Umar Khan, with his bloodthirsty brigands had run him literally to earth? Taking a torch from one of the bystanders, and holding it out at arm's length over the gulf, he said: "Look down there, my brother, yonder is the Ruby Sword." "I see nothing," replied Yar Hussain, who, lying flat on the brink, was peering over. "Stay--yes. Something is hanging. It is of iron. It is a chain. You--three of you--hold your lights out over yon black opening of hell." Then as they obeyed he went on--"Yes. There it is. There is a chest--bound with brass. Of a truth the secret is at length revealed." Even the impassive reticence of the Oriental seemed to relax. There was a note of strong excitement in the deep tones of the chief, and his eyes dilated as he beheld at last that which contained his long buried heirloom. He gave orders that the chest should be at once drawn up. This was not difficult. By Campian's advice they had come well provided with strong camel-hide ropes. These were noosed, and the loops being swung round the chest on either side of the chain--a very simple process in the strong light of many torches--were drawn tight. Then, at the word from Campian, who superintended the operation, and whose interest and excitement were hardly less than that of the chief, they hauled away. The chest proved of less weight than they expected, and lo!--in a trice--it lay safe upon the floor of the cave. Many and pious were the ejaculations of those who beheld. The massive chain, somewhat indented in the wood through the weight it had so long sustained, was at length filed through, and the chest borne to the entrance of the cave to be opened in full daylight. Seen there it was indeed black and venerable with age, and the lettering on the cover so blurred that the old eyes of Ain Asraf were hardly equal to the task of deciphering it. But the impatience of those around was deepening every moment, and Yar Hussain with his own hands began to open the chest. It was secured by cunning locks, the device of which was known to him. The hinges, stiff and rusty with age and damp, at first would not turn, then yielded to a couple of hearty tugs. The while every head was craned forward, every spectator was breathless with expectation. As an instance of how one can persuade oneself into a belief in any theory, even now no misgiving came to Campian lest the chest should contain nothing of any value. An aromatic and pungent odour filled the air on the opening of the box. At first a layer of sheepskin vellum, then parchments. At these Yar Hussain merely glanced hurriedly and continued his investigations. One bag--then another--five bags of the same soft sheepskin and carefully tied, each about the size of an orange. On opening these--lo! three of them contained precious stones, cut, and some of splendid size and water. The other two were filled with uncut stones. This was beginning to look promising. The next layer being uncovered yielded to view some magnificent personal ornaments, bracelets and the like, thickly jewelled. These were lifted out, and then the third skin covering being removed, that contained by the last and lower compartment of the chest lay revealed. Something long, wrapped in several rolls of the soft wash leather. Carefully, almost reverently, Yar Hussain unfolded these and--There it lay, in the bottom of the chest, hilt and scabbard literally glowing with splendid rose red jewels, relieved by the white flash of diamonds, dazzling the eyes of the beholders with the suddenness of its glare--there it lay, in its long hidden splendour, the cherished heirloom of the refugee Durani chief--the priceless Ruby Sword. For some moments the surrounding Baluchis stood staring in stupefied silence, then they broke forth in ejaculations as to the wonderful ways of Allah, and so forth. Campian, beholding the wealth thus displayed, could not but feel some sort of qualm as he remembered how he might have concealed his knowledge until able to turn it to his own material account. It was only momentary, however, and he was the first to break in with a practical remark. "Hearken, Sohrab Khan," he said. "I think I have now done all that I can do. Tell the sirdar that he and his have returned to me the service that my father rendered to his, have returned it twofold, and I, for my part, am rejoiced to have been the means by which he has come into the possession of his own. But there are those in Shalalai I would fain see again, and if it is all the same to him, I think"--with a glance at the sun--"we might fetch Mehriab station in time to catch the afternoon train." This very Western and end of the nineteenth century phrase breaking in upon such a scene of Eastern and mediaeval romanticism struck its utterer as almost ludicrous in its incongruity. "In truth, that is comprehensible," replied Yar Hussain, when this suggestion was put to him--"and it shall be done. Yes, my brother, who art now one of us, thy wishes shall be fulfilled. But now, receive this,"--placing in his hand one of the bags of cut stones--"and choose from among these,"--pointing to the jewelled bracelets--"that some recompense may be made thee for thy sufferings at the hands of our people, and that the remembrance of thy brethren here may be pleasant and sweet when thou art among thine own people in the years to come." Campian, repressing the momentary instinct which moved him to decline so splendid a gift, made choice of one of the bracelets--not one of the best, however. It was a splendid ornament for all that, and a tightening of the heart went through him as he wondered to himself if it would ever be worn. Then he asked if he could keep the Durani ring, which he valued more than ever. "Surely," was the sirdar's reply. "In truth it is restored to a believer, and hath amply fulfilled its mission." When the train for Shalalai stopped at Mehriab station that day, the few European passengers it contained were lazily astonished by the presence on the platform of an evidently important Baluchi sirdar, accompanied by a large retinue. Their astonishment grew to activity, however, when one of the group, before entering a first-class carriage, took leave of them in excellent English, which was duly translated to the chief and his following by one of their number, the departure of the train being signalled by a perfect chorus of farewell "salaams" from those left behind. They were destined to be still more mightily astonished upon the arrival of the train at the last station or two before Shalalai by the appearance of a European, of military or official aspect, who greeted the supposed Oriental with cordial handgrip, singing out in a voice that carried the whole length of the train: "Devilish glad to see you back, old chap. And I've brought you your togs, so you'll have time to get into them as we go along. By George, though, you look no end of a real sirdar in that get-up, all the same." And taking a Gladstone bag from the attendant bearer, he jumped in too. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. LIGHT. "After months--which seemed years--of the most abominable hardship, wearying anxiety, and constant danger, the security and restfulness of this sort of thing is simply beyond all words to define." Thus Campian, clad in irreproachable evening dress, with a wave of the hand which takes in the lighted table and trophy hung walls. The only other occupant of Upward's dining room has just entered, likewise in full panoply--with opera-cloak, and fan and gloves. "Yes. That is indeed true. Do you know, I wish we had not got to go out to-night." "Then why do we; for as it happens I entirely share that wish. Suppose we stay at home instead. Or are you going to say `Duty'?" Vivien does not at once reply. Something in the tone, in the scarcely veiled meaning wherewith he emphasises the word, strikes home to her. The Upward party and her uncle have gone on, bound for a regimental theatrical performance at the Assembly Rooms, and they two are left to follow. Not many days have gone by since Campian's return to Shalalai; not many more are to go by before he leaves it--almost certainly for ever. "Shall we stay at home then, dear?" answers Vivien, a little wave of unsuppressed tenderness in her voice. "We may throw duty overboard for once, for the sake of a poor returned wanderer. But--I have made you this, and in any case you must wear it." "This" being an exquisite little "button-hole" which she is now carefully pinning on for him. The great tiger jaws on the walls seem to snarl inaudibly in the lamplight-- as though to remind both of the multifold perils of the beautiful, treacherous East. Now, the act of pinning on a button-hole under some circumstances is bound to lead to a good deal, therefore in this case, that an arm should close around the operatrix seems hardly surprising. "Do you still venerate that vacant old fetish? It parted us once, Vivien." Again she is silent, and her eyes fill. The great black and orange stripes of the tiger skins seem to dance in angry rays before her vision. Her voice will not come to her. But he continues: "Has it never occurred to you that you--that we--made a very considerable mistake that time? We each found our counterpart in the other. Surely such an experience is unique. Then what happened? You set up a fetish--a miserable fraud--a mere whimsical conception of an idol--and called it Duty--while I--I was fool enough to let you do it." "I don't know why things were ordered that way," he continues, for still Vivien makes no reply--"or for what purpose, of earth or heaven, five years of happiness should have been knocked off our lives. But for whatever it is, I don't believe for a moment it was arranged we should meet so strangely and unexpectedly in this out of the way part of the world--all for nothing. We have been brought together again, and we have tried to keep up the _role_ of strangers--of mere acquaintances-- and the whole thing is a most wretched and flimsy fiasco. Is it not?" "Yes." She is looking at him now, full and earnestly. Her fingers are toying with the "button-hole" she has pinned on his coat. Unconsciously she is leaning on him as he holds her within his embrace. "Our love showed forth in every moment, in every word, in every action of our lives," he continues. "The mask we tried to wear was quite unavailable to stifle the cry of two aching hearts. Listen, darling. There is no room for affectation between us now. Our love is as ever it was--rather is it stronger. Am I right?" "Yes. You are the one love of my life, and always have been. And you know it--dearest." So sweet, so soft comes this reply, that the very tones are as an all pervading caress. "Those five years are beyond our reach," he continues. "They are gone never to return, but we can make up for them during the remainder of our lives. And--we will. Will we not?" "Yes--we will." The reply, though low, is full-voiced and unhesitating. Luminous eyes, sweet with their love light, are raised to his, and the man's head is drawn down to meet again that kiss which seemed to join soul to soul in the dread hour of peril and of bloodshed and self-abnegation. And, with the moment, the long years of desolation and heart-emptiness are as though they had never been--for after the drear gloom of their weary length--the sharp and fiery trial of their culmination, Love has triumphed, and now there is light. And here with the doings of our two principal characters we have no further concern, and if this holds good of them, still more does it hold good of those among whom their lot has been temporarily cast. But if life, in its fatefulness, has refrained from dashing the cup of happiness--tardily yet finally grasped--from the hands of these two, its normal grimness of irony is not likely to suffer in the long run. For Umar Khan is still at large. Force and diplomacy alike have failed to bring that arch-free-booter and murderer within measurable distance of the gallows and faggot pyre, which he has so richly earned a score of times over. For the twenty-first time the wily evildoer has escaped retribution, and in all probability will continue to do so. Which--if not exactly satisfying to our reader's sense of poetic justice--is Life. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE END. 
26392	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 26392-h.htm or 26392-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/6/3/9/26392/26392-h/26392-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/6/3/9/26392/26392-h.zip) Transcriber's note: [oe] represents the oe-ligature. THE HERO OF GARSIDE SCHOOL by J. HARWOOD PANTING Author of "Clive of Clair College," "The Two Runaways," etc. With Original Illustrations London Frederick Warne & Co., Ltd. and New York (All rights reserved) Printed In Great Britain [Illustration: FALCON WAS DEAD.... TO MAKE GOOD HIS ESCAPE, NO TIME MUST BE LOST.] CONTENTS I THE MOTHER'S PRAYER II THE MESSAGE III THE CRY OF THE PSALMIST IV SHADOWS OF THE EVENING V THE LITTLE HUNCHBACK VI HARRY MONCRIEF ARRIVES AT GARSIDE VII A BAD COMMENCEMENT FOR THE TERM VIII FOR THE SAKE OF A CHUM IX GOOD ADVICE X TORN FROM THE BLACK BOOK XI FOR THE HONOUR OF THE FORM XII THE FORUM XIII A CHALLENGE FROM ST. BEDE'S XIV THE CHAMPION OF HIS FORM XV WHAT HAPPENED AT THE SAND-PIT XVI "HE MIGHT HAVE BEEN A LEPER" XVII THE "GARGOYLE RECORD" XVIII PAUL WRITES A LETTER XIX THE SCHOOL OF ADVERSITY XX WYNDHAM AGAIN TO THE RESCUE XXI THE CHASM WIDENS XXII HATCHING A PLOT, AND WHAT CAME OF IT XXIII THE LAST BOND OF FRIENDSHIP XXIV THE RAFT ON THE RIVER XXV ON A VOYAGE OF ADVENTURE XXVI WHAT HAPPENED ON THE RAFT XXVII THE OLD FLAG XXVIII HIBBERT ASKS STRANGE QUESTIONS XXIX AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR ARRIVES AT GARSIDE XXX HIBBERT FINISHES HIS STORY XXXI A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE XXXII HOW THE OLD FLAG WAS TAKEN FROM GARSIDE XXXIII FRIEND AND FOE XXXIV THE MYSTIC ORDER OF BEETLES XXXV A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY XXXVI THE "FOX-HOLE" XXXVII THE LETTERS AT THE TUCK-SHOP XXXVIII "FORGIVE, AND YE SHALL BE FORGIVEN" XXXIX THE MISSING FLAG XL HOW THE FLAG FOUND ITS WAY BACK TO THE TURRET XLI FRIENDS IN COUNCIL XLII UNEXPECTED TIDINGS XLIII THE STORM BREAKS XLIV IN THE GARDEN XLV HOW THE VOTE WAS CARRIED XLVI WATERMAN DOES A STRANGE THING XLVII IN THE FOX'S HOLE XLVIII THE BURNING SHIP XLIX THE PETITION--WHAT BEFELL IT L FOUND OUT ILLUSTRATIONS FALCON WAS DEAD.... TO MAKE GOOD HIS ESCAPE, NO TIME MUST BE LOST. "'I AM MR. MONCRIEF,' SAID THAT GENTLEMAN, STEPPING FORWARD." "AS ILL-LUCK WOULD HAVE IT, HIBBERT RAN FULL TILT AGAINST MR. WEEVIL, JUST AS HE REACHED THE OUTER DOOR." "SLIGHTLY RAISING HIMSELF FROM HIS POSITION ON THE ROOF, CRICK LIFTED THE FLAGSTAFF FROM ITS SOCKET, AND DREW IT QUICKLY BENEATH THE TRAP-DOOR." "THE BOY WAS KNEELING BESIDE HIM,--IT WAS MONCRIEF MINOR.... 'ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?' CAME IN A WHISPER FROM THE BOY." THE HERO OF GARSIDE SCHOOL CHAPTER I THE MOTHER'S PRAYER "God grant that it may never happen, Paul; God grant that England may never be invaded, that her foes may never land upon our shores." And the lips of Mrs. Percival moved in silent prayer. Paul regarded the loved face of his mother for a minute or two thoughtfully, as though he were longing to put to her many questions, but dared not. At length he said, breaking the silence: "Did father ever speak of it?" It was one of the greatest griefs of Paul's life that he had never known his father. He had been a captain in the Navy, but was unfortunately cut off in the prime of his career by a brave attempt to save the life of a man who had flung himself overboard. The man was saved, but Captain Percival was drowned, leaving a widow and son to lament his loss. Paul at that time was only a year old, so that it was not till the years went on he understood the greatness of his loss. Often and often his thoughts turned to the father who had been snatched from him by a sudden and untimely death, especially when he saw the boys of his school who were fortunate enough to possess both parents; but often as his thoughts went to his father, he rarely spoke of him to his mother. He could see that the pain and sorrow of his death were still with her--that the awful moment when the news came of that sudden, swift catastrophe had written itself upon her heart and memory in writing which would never be effaced. Paul did not find out all that he had become to his mother till some time after his father's death--not, in fact, till his first term at school had ended. He had never been away from home so long before, and he never forgot how she pressed him to her, and with what tender earnestness she said, "Ah, dear, you do not know how I have missed you." That same night, when she had thought him fast asleep, she entered his room, looked long and earnestly in his face by the light of a candle, and then stole gently out. And that Sunday, when he went to the old church with her, he felt her hand steal into his as the vicar read the Litany; and the pressure of her hand waxed closer as the vicar's voice sounded through the church: "From lightning and tempest; from plague, pestilence, and famine; from battle and murder, and from sudden death." Then rose the fervent response from the congregation, "Good Lord, deliver us." And none prayed it more fervently than the widow as she knelt by the side of her son. It was not only that Mrs. Percival had lost her husband at sea, but she had lost a brother, a promising young lieutenant in the Navy, while on active service in China; and Paul's grandfather had lost his life many years back while fighting under Nelson at Copenhagen. It is little to be wondered at, therefore, that Mrs. Percival rarely spoke about the sea to Paul. She feared its fascination; she was anxious to keep his thoughts from it. He was all that was now left to her, and she had no wish that he should go into the service in which the lives of three near and dear relatives had been sacrificed. "Yes, your father sometimes spoke of it," Mrs. Percival answered. "His father--that is to say, your grandfather--lived in the time when there was such a great scare about wicked Napoleon invading England; but that is long ago, and it was all ended by Nelson's last great victory at Trafalgar. Ah, Paul, these scares and wars are terrible. I sometimes think that it must be monsters ruling the world rather than men. If the prayers of mothers and wives and orphans could only be heard, I am sure that war, and the danger of war, would soon be over. But why are you worrying about an invasion?" "Well, Great Britain has a good many enemies, you know, mother, and people are talking about a possible invasion. Besides, I've got to write something about it next term, and it won't do for the son of a captain to make a mess of it altogether." "Write something?" questioned Mrs. Percival, turning pale. Ah, the terrible fascination of the sea! Was it going to claim her son as it had claimed her husband? "How is that?" "A prize has been offered for the best paper on 'The Invasion of Great Britain.' I may as well have a cut in." "By all means, Paul; but for my sake--for my sake"--placing her hand upon his shoulder--"don't think too much about the sea." She leant forward and kissed him; then went hurriedly from the room. Paul knew that it was his duty to do as his mother told him, but he found it very hard. He was a stalwart lad of fifteen, with the blood of two generations of seamen in his veins, so that it seemed as though his very blood were part of the brine of the ocean. He stood by the window, looking from the old Manor House in which he lived to the road. Presently he saw Job Brice, who did odd jobs about the house and garden, walking across the grounds to the paddock. Job had been a seaman in the Navy at the same time as his father, and for that reason had been given employment, to add to his pension, at the Manor House; but he rarely spoke about his seafaring life to our hero. Paul suspected that this, in a large measure, was due to his mother, for whenever Job did speak, he always dwelt on the most unattractive side of a sailor's life. So soon as Paul caught sight of Job, he seized his cap, and went after him. He came up with him just as he had entered the paddock. "I say, Brice, I've just been talking to mother about father. I don't like to question her too much, for I can see it gives her pain." "Quite right, Master Paul; it does give her pain," said Job, turning his scarred, weather-beaten face to the boy; "and it's very good of you to think of her. It ain't all boys who're so thoughtful of their mother." "Oh, don't butter me, Brice, for I'm long chalks from deserving it. But perhaps you wouldn't mind answering me a question I could never quite make out. I've heard that father died in saving another man. And that is all I do know, for mother never speaks of it, and I can't keep boring her with questions. How did it happen?" "Well, no one knows exactly. So far as could be made out, some pirate--some furrin sneak--got into his cabin while we were in port, and got at his private despatches. He was imprisoned in the hold by the captain's orders. The next day we were to make for Gibraltar, where the spy was to be tried by court-martial. The next night was a dirty one--no rain to speak of, but dark and blustery. While it was at its height, the prisoner in the hold managed to escape, and jumped overboard. Your father was one of the first to see him, and leapt after him. He reached the poor wretch and held him till the boat put out; then a fiercer gust of wind came, and they were separated. The spy was swept in the direction of the boat. Your father was swept away from it. The spy was caught up and dragged into it. Your father was never seen again. He'd saved the spy's life at the expense of his own. There wasn't a man on board the ship but esteemed--yes, loved your father. He was one of the best skippers that ever walked a deck. What we felt afterwards, Master Paul, can't be described. We felt just sick that he'd gone, and that that sneaking, shivering furrin rascal had been saved. Some of the boys would ha' lynched him, I think, only that he looked purty sick at that time hisself, and they knew a court-martial was awaitin' him at Gibraltar. Well, he were taken to Gib." "And what happened?" asked the lad, as the old salt paused. "What happened? Why, he got clean off!" cried the old salt indignantly. "There was little or no evidence agen him. The one who knew all about him, and what he'd been up to, was your father, and--and----" Job Brice came to a dead stop as the back of his big, rough hand went across his eyes. "My father had gone to the bottom! Yes, yes, I understand it all!" said Paul in a choking voice. "So they were obliged to release the man, and he got off scot-free?" "You've just guessed it, Master Paul! It makes me blood boil when I think of it!" Then he ended up, as he always did: "Ah, it's a dog's life, is the sea! Don't you ever think of the sea, Master Paul!" Paul knew from what quarter the final moral, with which Job invariably favoured him, came. Usually he smiled; but there was no smile on his face now. He could understand his mother's feelings as he had never understood them before. He could understand why she so rarely spoke of that time--why she never referred to his father's death. "You can't remember the man's name, I suppose?" "No, I can't remember that," answered Job, rubbing his head thoughtfully, "'cept that it was a foreign one--Zuker, I think it was, or some such name as that. Don't think no more about it. Thinking about it don't do no good." "Poor, poor father!" said Paul, as he turned once more towards the house. "He must have been a brave man. Oh, that I could have seen him, and known him, so that I might be able to remember him as he was in life, instead of carrying about a dead image in my heart!" Still, it was a comfort to know that his father had been loved by those under him--that he had died a brave death. Better, far better, to die a brave death than to live on in shame and infamy, as the man had probably lived whom his father had saved. And yet this mean, despicable spy might have turned over a new leaf from the day his father had sacrificed his life to save him. He might have begun a new and nobler life. If so, the sacrifice had not been in vain. CHAPTER II THE MESSAGE The long autumn holiday was drawing to a close. In a couple of days' time Paul would be back again at the old school--back again at Garside House. He had had a pretty good time during the "vac.," but, none the less, he should not be sorry to meet again the fellows of his Form. School wasn't such a bad place, after all. "Fact, if it wasn't for that wretched science master, Weevil--why wasn't he christened Weazel?--one might put up with a lot of it. Don't know how it is, but he always puts my back up." Paul was returning home across the fields, and had just alighted over a five-barred gate into a lane which wound round the side of the Manor House into the main road, when he was arrested by a cry of distress. "Hallo! What's that? Some one down? My--down it is!" A horseman had come a cropper a little distance down the lane. Paul immediately ran to his assistance. "What's wrong, sir? A tumble?" "Yes; Falcon slipped, and before I quite knew where I was I was out of the saddle. But I don't think I'm hurt very much." Paul extended a hand to the fallen rider. He grasped it, and tried to rise; a spasm of pain crossed his face. "I'm afraid that you are hurt, sir." "A little more than I thought," said the gentleman, as he leaned against the saddle. "Poor old Falcon," patting the horse, "don't look so grieved. It wasn't so much your fault as my carelessness." Then the caressing movement of the hand ceased, and he stood listening as one who fears pursuit. He tried to mount to the saddle, but failed. "Heaven help me!" he murmured. And then, as though Heaven had inspired him, he turned to Paul suddenly with a hopeful light in his eye: "Can you ride, my lad?" "Rather! I learnt to ride almost as soon as I could walk," smiled Paul. It was no empty boast. Paul had been taught riding at a very early age, and was as much at home in the saddle as on his feet. "I seem to have sprained my leg, and it is getting more painful every moment. I've got a message of the utmost importance that must reach Redmead to-night. You know Redmead?" "Well." "Will you take a message for me? I ask it as a great favour, my lad." He spoke with great earnestness, and waited eagerly for Paul's answer. Paul did not at once respond. Redmead was seven miles distant; it was getting dusk; the journey to Redmead and back would take him close upon two hours; his mother would wonder at his absence. "You won't refuse me, lad. You don't know what it means to me, and others." Paul liked the stranger's face. He was a man of about thirty-seven or thirty-eight, with clear, honest eyes, and an open, gentlemanly bearing. It was plain that the business on which he wished Paul to go was important. The boy's sympathies were with him, but still he hesitated. "Whereabouts in Redmead?" "To Oakville, the house of Mr. Moncrief." "Moncrief!" cried Paul. "I've a chum at school named Moncrief--Stanley Moncrief." "He's my son. The gentleman living at Redmead is Stanley's uncle. What is your name?" "Paul Percival." "I've often heard my boy speak of you. Glad to make your acquaintance, though I wish our introduction had taken place under happier circumstances." His chum's father! Paul was all aglow. He hesitated no longer. "Give me your message, sir. I shall only be too pleased to do anything for Stan's father." Mr. Moncrief wrote rapidly on a sheet from his pocket-book: "Enclosed fragments have come to hand. It is a letter from Zuker, the German Jew, who is in England. Take care. Be on guard!" When he had finished this brief note, Mr. Moncrief took from his pocket-book several fragments of torn paper, bearing on them, as it appeared to Paul, mysterious hieroglyphics. He put these inside an envelope together with the note he had written. Then he sealed it down and handed it to Paul. "You are my boy's chum, I feel that I can trust you. Give this to my brother, Mr. Walter Moncrief--in no one else's hands. I cannot tell you how much may depend upon those pieces of paper reaching him. You will not part with them whatever happens?" "God helping me," said Paul, impressed with the earnestness of Mr. Moncrief's words and manner. "There is my house, sir"--pointing to the Manor House. "You will find rest there, and perhaps you wouldn't mind telling my mother where I've gone." Paul mounted to the saddle. Falcon, as though anxious to resume its journey, sped along the lane into the open road. Though it was getting dusk, it mattered little to Paul, for he was well acquainted with every inch of the country for miles around. He could not help thinking of the strangeness of the adventure. "Stan's father--only fancy! I'm glad that I was able to help him and take his message. Shan't I have something to tell old Stan when I get back to school!" Then he began to wonder what the torn fragments of paper, with the hieroglyphics on them, could mean, and what could be the message of which he was the bearer. Had he seen it, his wonder would assuredly have grown. The cool breeze of evening fell upon his face. The shadows began to lengthen. The leaves rustled beneath Falcon's feet. It was a noble, intelligent horse, and seemed as conscious of the importance of the message upon which it was going as Paul himself. "Good horse--good Falcon!" cried Paul, stroking its neck. "I wouldn't mind a horse like you. I wonder how many times Stan has ridden you." By this time they had reached an open common. It had been a perilous place to ride over in years gone by, when robbers abounded, but those days had gone, and no thought of danger occurred to Paul as he reached it. There were two ways of going to his destination--one was by taking the road by the side of the common and skirting it, the other, by the more solitary but nearer road across it. Paul selected the latter, urging his horse to a gallop as he did so. Falcon immediately responded to the call of its young rider, and soon they were speeding across the common. When they reached the other side the road leading to Redmead stretched before them. It had grown suddenly darker. The road was bounded on either side by hedges, and the branches of trees interlaced each other in an arch-way overhead. Whether from the sudden darkness or that he had scented some hidden danger, Falcon slackened speed. "What's wrong, Falcon?" cried Paul. "Get on--the sooner our journey's ended, the sooner you'll have your supper. Now, then, old boy." The horse was about to speed forward again, but scarcely were the words from Paul's lips than a man sprang from the hedge and seized the bridle. "Stop!" came a sharp, decisive voice, with a foreign accent, "Stop!" Paul just caught a glimpse of the man's face in the half light. The cheekbones were somewhat high, but narrowed down sharply at the chin. He wore eyeglasses on the eyes, which seemed to Paul, in that swift glance he caught of them, of a steely blue. He had a thick, military moustache, drawn out to fierce points; but his chin was clean-shaven. Directly he stopped the horse, a second man sprang to the other side of it. Paul immediately concluded they were robbers. "What do you want? I've got no money--at least, only a few coppers. You're welcome to those, if you'll only let me ride on." "We're not robbers," said the first man, who seemed to be the master of the two, "and, therefore, we don't want your coppers. We've got one or two questions to put to you. If you'll only answer them civilly, we'll let you go your way. If you don't answer them----" He broke off with a shrug of the shoulders to indicate the terrible fate which might await the boy in the event of his declining to answer the questions put to him. "You're riding Mr. Moncrief's horse, Falcon?" Paul wondered who the man was, and how he had come by his information. "Yes, that's right. What of it?" "How is it you are riding Falcon instead of Mr. Moncrief?" Paul did not at once answer. He wondered whether by answering he would be doing wrong. Yet what wrong could he do by speaking the truth. Paul was an honest boy--as honest as the day--and detested falsehood of any kind. "Mr. Moncrief met with an accident--that's why," he answered doggedly. "An accident"--the stranger exchanged glances with the other man. "That's the reason he's been left behind, is it? You've come in his stead--eh?" Paul nodded. He felt somehow that he was giving Mr. Moncrief away, but he could not help himself. "Thought so. You're going to Mr. Walter Moncrief, his brother--eh?" Paul remained silent. He felt that he had said too much already. "Tongue-tied--eh? Well, I won't trouble you to answer, for I know well enough my information's right. All you need do is just to hand over to me the packet you're taking to Mr. Walter Moncrief. I'll take care of it." The stranger's information was only too accurate; Paul marvelled at its accuracy; but nevertheless Mr. Moncrief's words, "I feel that I can trust you. You will not part with the letter, whatever happens," came to him, and he determined not to give up the packet without a struggle. "You're not deaf as well as tongue-tied--eh? Quick! quick! hand over the packet," came the imperious voice of the stranger. Paul saw that he was in a desperate situation--one from which it would only be possible to extricate himself by strategy. He put his hand to the inner pocket where the packet lay, and drew it a little way from his pocket. This movement disarmed the man who held the bridle. He slackened his hold. As he did so Paul brought down his riding-whip--or, rather, Mr. Moncrief's riding-whip--sharply on the other man's face. With a cry of mingled rage and pain the man dropped the bridle. "Good Falcon--good. Now!" cried Paul, urging the horse forward. The second man made a lunge at the horse. Falcon, as though fully alive to the need of getting away, bounded forward like a dart along the road. It went forward at a breakneck speed, quivering in every limb, as though feverishly anxious to place as great a distance as possible between Paul and his pursuers. "Thank God, thank God!" Paul murmured, overjoyed at their escape. "What a noble horse it is. That man is a foreigner, I'm sure of it--one who would stop at nothing to gain his ends. Who is he, I wonder?" If Paul had only known! But all was dark to him, as dark as the road along which he was speeding. Only one thing was clear--that these men were the enemies of Mr. Moncrief; that they were anxious to get from him the packet of which he was the bearer. More and more Paul wondered what could be the meaning of it all--what could be the meaning of the curious hieroglyphics in his pocket. But suddenly, just as he was congratulating himself on the distance he had placed between himself and his pursuers, Falcon slackened speed, and began to breathe hard. What was the meaning of it? Had an accident befallen him, or had he grown weary? Paul knew enough of the animal to know that it would not readily slacken speed through weariness. Falcon was one of those sterling animals who would take every inch from himself before he would give in through weariness. If he could only get it a little farther on the road, it might be possible to keep the advantage he had gained on his pursuers. Once more he encouraged the horse to go forward; and once more it made a desperate effort to obey him. Then it reeled again. Paul had just time to extricate his feet from the stirrups when Falcon fell with a crash by the roadside. Paul hurt one of his legs by the fall, but he had no thought for himself as he bent over the horse. "Heaven help us!" was his fervent prayer, for in that one brief glance he could tell that poor Falcon was dying, and he knew that not long would elapse before his pursuers reached him. "What is it, old fellow? Good Falcon--good!" Once more Falcon responded to the call; it made desperate efforts to rise; but almost immediately slackened. Paul's hand went to its neck. It was bathed in perspiration and foam. What had happened to it? In the uncertain light it was impossible to tell. Had it injured a foot or leg? All at once Paul recalled the way in which the man had lunged at the horse at the moment of their escape. He must have injured it in some way. CHAPTER III THE CRY OF THE PSALMIST Yes; poor Falcon was dying. A crimson stream was running from a wound in its flank, and Paul knew that the horse had not many minutes to live. "The scoundrel!" he said to himself between his clenched teeth, as he thought of the man who had wrought this cruel deed. Paul was one of those brave lads who would never wittingly have done an act of cruelty, least of all to one of God's dumb creatures. It touched him to the quick to see the poor horse dying. He knelt by its side, and his hand went caressingly over it. Falcon turned to him with such a look of pathos in its eyes that a big lump rose in the boy's throat, as though he were choking. "I can do nothing for you, old fellow. I wish I could!" There was no help near, and it was clear to see that if there had been it would have been useless. Falcon was breathing hard, in its last stern fight with death. Paul could not bear to see its pain. His hand moved up to its head. It soothed the horse. For a minute it lay perfectly still, and then, as though in that brief interval of rest it had been collecting its strength for a last great effort, it tried to rise to its feet again. It rose a little way, then fell. Again it turned its head to Paul, and looked at him with glazed eyes. A shiver went over every limb; then the noble horse lay quite still, and Paul knew that it was dead. Tears came to his eyes. It was as though he had been standing by the death-bed of a human being. And, now that he was in the presence of death, he scarcely knew how to act. Suddenly the sound of distant voices roused him from the stupor into which he had fallen. For the moment, in his grief at Falcon's death, he had forgotten that he was being pursued--forgotten the message of which he was the bearer. The sound of voices recalled him to his duty. If he remained there, his pursuers would soon discover him, and wrest from him the letter with which he had been entrusted. Falcon was dead. He could do no good by remaining. To make good his escape, no time must be lost. By God's good help, he might yet succeed in eluding his pursuers. So he pulled himself together, resolved to go forward at all hazards. "It is for Stan's father," he said to himself, as he tried to run. But he soon found that another misfortune had befallen him. The injury to his leg prevented him from running. It was only with an effort he could walk at any speed, and at every step he took he felt that his pursuers were gaining ground. Redmead was close upon three miles away. How could he hope to reach it without being overtaken by the men who were so keenly pursuing him? Instinctively came to his memory the words he had so often heard in the village church--"The wicked oppress me--compass me about. They now compass me in my footsteps." And the cry of the Psalmist rose to his lips: "Hold up my goings in Thy paths, that my footsteps slip not. Show Thy marvellous loving kindness, O Thou that savest by Thy right hand them which put their trust in Thee. Hide me under the shadow of Thy wings from the wicked that oppress me, from my deadly enemies, who compass me about. Arise, O Lord, disappoint him, cast him down." With renewed strength he pressed on; but he had not gone far before he was compelled to slacken his pace. He realized that it was hopeless for him to evade his pursuers unless he could find some hiding-place. He looked around. There was no house near. But just a little ahead of him, to the right of the road, were the ruins of an old house which had been burned almost to the ground, and never been re-built. As a drowning man clutches at a straw, Paul made his way to the ruins. But he had not gone more than a few paces through what had once been the garden of the house, when a voice cried: "Hallo! Who are you? What are you doing here?" Paul was somewhat startled, for he thought the place deserted. He found himself mistaken, however, for a boy came from the ruins and faced him. He was slightly taller than Paul, and of slimmer build; but he was none the less well proportioned, and his limbs moved with the easy movement of a young athlete. In spite of the dusk, Paul recognized him. He was one of the senior boys of St. Bede's--the scholars of which were the deadly rivals of Paul's school. There had been a perpetual feud between St. Bede's and Garside for many years. Sometimes it would be patched up for a week or two; then it would break out with greater violence than ever. Just before the vacation, the feud had burst out stronger than ever. There is no telling to what length it might have been carried, but, fortunately, the vacation came on, and hostilities were suspended. The boy before him was Wyndham, one of the ringleaders on the other side. The recognition was simultaneous. "You're one of the bounders of Garside, aren't you?" "Yes," Paul candidly admitted; "and you--you're one of the Bede's, aren't you? I haven't time to talk. There's some one after me. Can you put me up to a place to hide in?--quick, there's a good fellow!" "Running away--eh?" said the other contemptuously, without moving. "That's like you Garside fellows!" "I wish I had only the time to teach you better," retorted Paul indignantly. Then, remembering all that was at stake, he suppressed his indignation, and in quick, earnest tones: "I'm not sneaking--on my word of honour. I'm the bearer of an important paper, belonging to a chum's father. Two men are following me up to try to get it from me. If I can't steer clear of them they will take it from me. You know this place. Hide me somewhere!" The earnest tones of Paul appealed to Wyndham. "I don't know of any hiding-place, except----" "Except what?" cried Paul eagerly, as he again caught the sound of voices from the roadway. "The old well." "The old well! How is it possible to hide there?" "Well, I can let you down in the bucket, if you care to run the risk. I've been down it myself--but I'm not a Garside fellow." It was as much as to say that "a Garside fellow" was not capable of doing what a "St. Bede fellow" could do. "I'd run any risk--quick! I can near them coming! Where's the well?" It was only a few paces from where they were standing. Wyndham led the way. "I'll let you down a little way; then draw you up again directly the men have gone--that is to say, if they should come this way." "They are coming this way. I feel sure of it, and there's no time to lose." "Here you are, then. Keep steady, and don't make a sound. They won't think of you stowed away down there." Paul got into the bucket. The chain was somewhat rusty, but though it was the worse for disuse, and creaked as it was lowered, it held firm. When Wyndham had lowered Paul a short distance, he made firm the chain; so that he was suspended half-way between the water and the top. It wasn't a very pleasant situation. A dank smell came from below, and it seemed the abode of darkness as the boy above shut out the last remnant of light by placing the cover a little way over the well. Not a moment too soon, for he had only just finished when a man darted up to him and seized him by the collar. "Ha! Got you at last, have I? A nice chase you've led us." "What's the matter? That's my collar when you've done with it. Drop it, please!" "Hand over that paper." "What paper?" "The paper you're taking to Redmead. Quick--out with it!" Wyndham, though he did not appreciate the man's grip on his collar, was enjoying the joke. He could see what had happened. The man had mistaken him for "that Garside fellow" down the well. "I would like to oblige you, but I really don't know what you're talking about. I haven't any paper." By this time the second man had arrived on the scene. His sharp, ferrety eyes, which--like the eyes of a cat--seemed capable of seeing in the darkness, immediately went to Wyndham's face. "Hi, Brockman! Hi! What are you doing? You have got hold of the wrong boy!" "The wrong boy!" exclaimed the man addressed as Brockman. "Are you sure?" "Certain! Where are your eyes?" "They're not quite so sharp as yours, Mr. Zuker, I know; but I made sure I'd tracked the youngster here." Paul could hear distinctly every word that passed from his uncomfortable position down the well. As the name Zuker fell upon his ears he trembled so that he nearly over-balanced himself and fell into the water below. It was not with fear. Zuker! That name was one he was never likely to forget so long as memory lasted. It was the name of the man for whom his poor father had sacrificed his life! Could it be the same? It was not a common name, and though the man spoke English readily, it was with a German accent. Instinctively Paul felt that it was the same, instinctively he felt that the man who had been in pursuit of him was the man whom his father had tried to save from the sea so long ago. As a recompense for what the father had done he was hunting down the son! "Thank you; it's very kind of you," said Wyndham, as Brockman released his hold. "Seems to me you're a little too hasty with your hands! The next time you take any one by the collar you'd better make sure first that you're going for the right one!" Brockman turned away without deigning to reply. Zuker was about to follow his example, but, suddenly checking himself, he asked: "Have you seen any one pass this way--a boy about your size--no, not quite so tall," as the sharp eyes took note of Wyndham's height. "About my own size--not quite so tall? Let me see." Wyndham paused as though trying to remember. "Make haste!" cried Zuker impatiently. "We haven't any time to lose. Surely you can remember." "I'm trying to. You see, there are a good number of boys pass along this road during the day." "I'm not speaking about the daytime--within the last quarter of an hour!" "A quarter of an hour. Let me think." "You'll get nothing from that blockhead, sir!" cried Brockman. "We're losing valuable time!" Zuker had drawn near the well. His hand rested upon the handle. Wyndham was a cool boy, whom it took a great deal to disturb, but it must be confessed that he required all his coolness and self-possession at that moment. He was fearful lest Zuker might catch a glimpse of Paul down the well. But, fortunately, he was too intent on questioning Wyndham. So, after asking him one or two more questions, he said cuttingly: "You're a sharp youth. You will set the Thames on fire some day--ugh!" He looked for the moment as though he would spurn Wyndham with his foot; but instead of doing so he gave a vicious twist to the well-handle--to the no small alarm of Wyndham--and hastened after his tool and servant, Brockman. Wyndham leapt to the windlass. The twist given by the German had set the bucket in motion. Paul was rapidly descending in the bucket to the bottom! He seized the handle in his hand and held on to it with all his strength. It vibrated as though it were a live thing. He feared that the sudden strain upon the chain might snap it in twain, but it held firm. "Hi, hi!" he cried below. "Are you all right?" A moment of intense silence--a moment which seemed interminable to the boy clinging to the handle of the windlass; then, to his great relief, the voice of Paul came faintly up the well: "All right! But--but it's been a near thing!" "Hold tight. I'm going to haul you up!" Slowly he hauled Paul to the top of the well; and, with an inexpressible feeling of thankfulness, Paul stepped from the bucket. "Have they gone?" he asked eagerly. "Yes. A near thing, you said; what happened?" "You just stopped me within about a foot of the water, and the sudden jerk nearly pitched me out of the bucket. The scoundrels have gone, you say?" "Yes," smiled Wyndham; "they've gone in hot pursuit of you. They little dreamt you were down that well! You couldn't have had a better hiding-place." "Better! Well, perhaps you're right; but it was a bit musty and uncomfortable! I'm much obliged to you, all the same. You seem a decent fellow, though you are a Beetle!" Beetle was the nickname given by the Garside boys to the boys of St. Bede's. Wyndham laughed. Paul glanced round the melancholy, deserted ruin. He could see no sign of human habitation. "And you seem a decent fellow, though you are a Gargoyle." (Gargoyle was the nickname given by the St. Bede boys to the boys of Garside School.) "What's your name?" "Paul Percival. I have often seen you amongst the other Beetles; but you don't live about here, do you?" "Not now." And there was a deep note of melancholy in Wyndham's voice. "You can see, it's a ruin; but before it was a ruin I lived here with my mother and youngest brother, Archie. He's gone--now." "Gone?" Wyndham nodded, and Paul understood too well what "gone" meant. Wyndham's brother was dead; but he wondered what his death could have to do with the ruined house. There was a painful silence between them for some moments. "I think you said you were going to Redmead?" "Yes; Oakville, that's the house I want." "I know it. Mr. Moncrief lives there. He's a big man at Chatham Dockyard, and has a lot to do with the defences of the Medway and the Thames, so I've heard. He designs things, too, for the Admiralty. I'm going partly that way if you don't mind walking with a Beetle." Paul laughed, and remarked that he could put up for once with a Beetle if the Beetle could put up with a Gargoyle. So they started together, and Wyndham told Paul by the way the reason of the ruined house. His father and mother had taken the house soon after they were married. He, Gilbert, was born there; so was his younger brother Archie. Three years after the birth of Archie, God visited upon them a great misfortune by calling to Himself Mr. Wyndham. Gilbert had by this time started on his school career, for he was several years older than his brother. The second misfortune occurred while he was away at school, three years after the death of his father. Little Archie was the idol of his mother, and a great pet with old Martha, the housekeeper, who had been in the household ever since the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham. Early one morning Mrs. Wyndham awoke with a feeling of suffocation. On looking, half dazed, around the bedroom, she found it full of smoke. Her first thought was of Archie. She made her way to his bed. It was empty! She went to the landing; that was full of smoke also. She called for her boy. No answer came. The bewildered mother imagined that he must have escaped from the burning house while she slept. By God's providence she got out. She found that the two servants had managed to escape from the burning house; but there were no signs of little Archie! The distracted mother would have entered the burning house again to search for him, but she was held back. It was a merciful thing that she became unconscious, and did not see the end of the homestead where she had spent so many happy, peaceful hours. It was burnt almost to the ground, and amongst the ruins in the kitchen were found the charred remains of Archie. The little fellow was fond of watching old Martha when she lit the fires. It was believed, therefore, that he had stolen out of bed that fatal morning and tried to light the fire in the kitchen on his own account. The lighted match set fire to his bedgown, the bedgown to some curtains, and so the fire had spread. Archie joined his father in heaven. "I was away at school at the time," said Wyndham, when he had finished his painful story. "You can judge what a homecoming that was for me!" "It must indeed have been sad," said Paul feelingly. "My mother was ill for a long time, but at length she got well again. I was the only one left to her. After that we lived in a house about a mile from here. The ruins of the old house still remain, as you have seen. Some day my mother may build again, but she hasn't the heart for it at present." The story of little Archie Wyndham is perfectly true. It is not fiction. It happened precisely in the way I have described. I know the terrible fascination that fire has for children. Unfortunately they do not understand its danger. When, therefore, my dear boy or girl, you are tempted to play with fire, will you remember the sad fate of little Archie Wyndham? That will enable you, by God's help, to put the temptation from you. All at once Paul came to a dead stop. His hand went to his coat-pocket. Absorbed in Wyndham's story, he had forgotten all about the letter he was to take to Mr. Walter Moncrief. "What's the matter?" asked Wyndham. Paul's face had turned to an ashen hue. His hand was still searching his pocket. "The letter!" he exclaimed. "The letter--well, what about it?" "It's gone!" "Gone!" echoed Wyndham scarce able to believe his ears. CHAPTER IV SHADOWS OF THE EVENING But too true--the letter had gone. No wonder Paul was bewildered, stupefied. He had risked so much to get that letter to its destination--had braved more than one peril, and come safely through--that it seemed heart-breaking to find the letter gone. "Have you searched all your pockets?" asked Wyndham. "All," answered Paul. "It was in this one--here"--he placed his hand upon his breast-pocket. "I put it here when it was given me, and I haven't shifted it." "Where, then, can it have gone?" Where? Paul knew well enough that it was in his possession when he left poor Falcon by the roadside, for he had felt in his pocket, and found it there. He must, therefore, have lost it since; but where--where? That was the question he kept repeating to himself without finding an answer. Of a sudden it came to him. It must have been jerked from his pocket at the moment Wyndham caught the handle of the windlass, nearly precipitating him from the bucket to the water. "I believe it's in the well." "What?" cried Wyndham. "In the well? How can that be?" Paul explained. "You must be right," said Wyndham thoughtfully, when the explanation was ended. "Well, there's one consolation--it's better for the letter to be in the well than you. It's a pity, but it can't be helped. What will you do?" Paul had been thinking. He could go forward to Mr. Moncrief at Redmead, and explain to him that he had lost the letter, or he could go back, and explain to the other Mr. Moncrief that he had failed in his embassy. Neither alternative was very palatable to him. Duty was before him as a pole-star. A still small voice was ever whispering to him, "Paul, thy duty. Do that in spite of anything that may happen to you. Place that first and foremost, even before self." What, then, was his duty? To confess to failure and defeat? No, never! That was the coward's part. He would not rest satisfied until he had made an effort to recover the letter he had lost, and he told Wyndham so. "I like your pluck; 'pon my word I do. Didn't think a Gargoyle had so much--really I didn't," said Wyndham; "but it's no use being foolhardy. If the letter's at the bottom of the well, how, in the name of wonder, are you going to get it up again?" "I don't believe it's at the bottom. The water was pretty thick, I'm certain, by the odour. There would be vegetable stuff, and that sort of thing floating on the top of it. Well, if that's so, the letter wouldn't sink. The gravity of the water would be greater than the weight of the letter." "Oh, the Gargoyles do go in a bit for physics--eh?" smiled Wyndham. "Fire away. I believe you're right. What's the next step?" "The next step is to go down the well again, and prove whether I'm right or wrong. Is it asking too much of you to go back with me?" "You mean going down the well again?" "If you'll oblige me by again turning the handle." Wyndham was by this time thoroughly interested in Paul and his mission, and he couldn't help admiring still further his pluck and determination. He never imagined that a despised "Gargoyle" had so much of those qualities. He willingly fell in with Paul's suggestion, and soon they were back again at the well. "I've forgotten one thing," said Paul. "I haven't a light." "Luckily I can lend you one. Wait here for a moment." Paul waited while Wyndham disappeared among the ruins. Presently he returned with a lantern, which he lighted and handed to Paul. Thus equipped, he once more took his position in the bucket. "Pay out slowly, and I'll tell you when to stop." The bucket slowly descended till Paul was within a foot or two of the water. "Stop!" he shouted. The bucket stopped, then Paul leaned over the side, and flashed the light of the lantern on the water. There, to his great joy, was the missing letter, floating on the weeds. He cautiously leaned forward, and grasping the letter, returned it once more in safety to his pocket. "Haul away!" he cried. And Wyndham hauled away, so that a minute later Paul was again at the brink of the well. "Found it?" asked Wyndham eagerly. For answer Paul produced the letter. It was slightly damp, but little the worse otherwise for its immersion. "Well, you deserve it. I'm jolly glad you've found it." "I should never have got it hadn't it been for you. It was very good of you to turn back with me, and I hope if at any time I can do you a service, you'll let me know." The two boys tramped on once more to their destination. Wyndham wished Paul good-night at the entrance to Redmead, his home lying in another direction. It was not long before Paul came in sight of Oakville. It was a fine old country house. A light was shining from its gabled front. By its light Paul could see that there was a man hovering about the house. He could not get a clear glimpse of him, but he was certain, from the man's figure and gait, that it was Brockman, the confederate of Zuker, the German spy. Knowing that Paul must come to the house, he had evidently been on the watch for him. Now that he had come so far, Paul did not intend being foiled at the last moment. He saw that it was useless trying to enter by the front of the house, so he crept round to the back. A light was coming from one of the windows. Paul made for this window, and looked through. He was scarcely prepared for what he saw. It was evidently a play-room. There was a large rocking-horse in one corner. A trapeze was slung up in the centre. There were single-sticks and foils on the wall, dumb-bells, Indian-clubs, a parallel-bar, and a vaulting-horse stowed away in another part of the room. But it was not so much these things which attracted the attention of Paul as the occupants of the room. A middle-aged gentleman was kneeling. He was praying aloud. Near him was a lady. On either side of her was a girl and boy--the boy about twelve, the girl a couple of years older. In line with them were a couple of maidservants and a governess. Paul could see that they were at family prayers. He guessed that the gentleman who was praying was Mr. Walter Moncrief, the gentleman he had come in search of by his likeness to his brother. When they had finished prayers, the lady went to the piano, and the little group joined heartily in a hymn Paul had often heard at school: "Now the day is over, Night is drawing nigh, Shadows of the ev'ning Steal across the sky." Paul listened reverently, with bowed head. How appropriate the words seemed to be. In very truth had the shadows been stealing across the sky that evening, and they had not yet dispersed. Brockman, the man without, was still hovering darkly, like a cloud, over that house. Again the singers within raised their voices: "Through the long night-watches, May Thine angels spread Their white wings above us, Watching round each bed." Paul echoed those words very earnestly in his heart as his hand clasped tightly the letter for which he had risked so much. The room was an addition to the house, and led by a separate door into the garden. When the singing had ended, Paul stepped softly to the door and knocked gently on it with his knuckles. It was opened by one of the servants. The light of the lamp fell upon Paul as the door opened, and the eyes of all in the room turned to him as he stood there, with the letter in his hand. "Can I see Mr. Moncrief?" "I am Mr. Moncrief. What is it you want with me, my lad?" said that gentleman stepping forward. [Illustration: "'I AM MR. MONCRIEF,' SAID THAT GENTLEMAN, STEPPING FORWARD."] "I've brought a letter from your brother, Mr. Henry Moncrief. He couldn't bring it himself, because of an accident----" "An accident?" "Nothing very serious, sir. A sprain, I think. He asked me to take the letter for him, and as he's the father of a school chum of mine, Stan Moncrief; I brought it along, and here it is," Paul explained rapidly, as he handed Mr. Moncrief the letter. Paul had by this time entered the room. Directly Mr. Moncrief glanced at the letter his face became very grave. He went from the room, and his wife followed him, evidently as anxious as himself to know the contents. The servants retired, and Paul was thus left alone with the boy and girl. There was not the least shyness about the former, for directly his parents left the room, he came forward and introduced himself. "I'm Harry Moncrief--named after the uncle you brought that letter from. He was my godfather, you know. This is my sister, Connie." Connie, who was a pretty, fair girl, looked embarrassed at her brother's blunt method of introduction, but he rattled on. "Rather good for a girl. Not so slow as most of them. Can take a turn with the bells or clubs"--by bells and clubs was meant dumb-bells and Indian-clubs--"and she can scout at cricket. Didn't I hear you say you were a chum of cousin Stanley's?" "Yes; we're in the same Form." "What--at Garside School?" asked the boy eagerly. Paul nodded. "Hurrah!--hurrah!" cried Harry. "I'm going to Garside next term. I've left Gaffer Quelch's, thank goodness!"--Gaffer Quelch's was a college for juvenile scholars in the neighbourhood--"and I'm going to see life at Garside." Paul could not help smiling at the boy's idea of "seeing life," and the high and exalted notion he seemed to have of Garside. "Do you know young Plunger? He used to be my chum at Quelch's, but he left there a term ago, and went to Garside. That's another reason I'm going there. Things are awfully slow at Quelch's since Plunger left He's a big pot at Garside, isn't he?" "Very," answered Paul drily. Paul knew young Plunger well enough. He was in one of the junior Forms. Though he had been at Garside only a term, he had almost succeeded in creating a record for the number of scrapes into which he had got during that short period. "Cousin Stan being so high up in the school, I don't want to let him down, you know, by making any mistakes when I get to Garside," Harry rattled on. "I want to do things in correct form, you see; for if I let myself down, I let Stan down. So I asked Plunger the right thing to do on going to Garside. Plunger's an awfully good sort of fellow, so he took the trouble to write down for me what ought to be done; but I wasn't to show it to any one here, for some of the things are school secrets, he tells me." Connie had discreetly withdrawn from the room, leaving Paul and her brother together. The latter, however, glanced round to make sure they were quite alone before he drew from his pocket the mysterious document which Plunger had written for his instruction on entering Garside School. "1. Trousers to be turned up at bottom three inches. "2. Spats on boots (patents). "3. White waistcoat. Eton jacket. "4. Introduce yourself to Bax, the porter, by giving him two slaps on the back and a dig with right-hand forefinger in ribs. Give him following particulars: Age and weight. Whether vaccinated--show marks. Give also measurement of biceps and chest. "5. On seeing Mrs. Trounce (matron) go down on right knee, and present her with your portrait (for school album). Write on bottom of card, in clear handwriting, 'With love and kind regards.' "6. Two shillings to be left at Billiter's for 'footing,' etc." Paul could scarcely refrain from smiling at the code of rules which the audacious Plunger had drawn up for his chum's instruction, the more so as Harry, who had never been to a public school, seemed to take them in all seriousness. "You've been through it all, of course?" said Harry, as Paul handed the rules back to him. "Kind of Plunger to take so much trouble, isn't it?" Paul was on the point of answering as Mr. Moncrief entered the room. Harry hastily thrust the paper out of sight. CHAPTER V THE LITTLE HUNCHBACK "What is your name, my lad?" Mr. Moncrief asked as he entered the room. "Paul Percival," answered our hero. "And he goes to the same school as Cousin Stan. Isn't that stunning, pa?" exclaimed Harry Moncrief. "Many thanks for the great service you have done, Paul," said Mr. Moncrief earnestly. "You have not only done a great service for me and my brother, but for your country. A duty like that brings its own reward. But how was it you came by the back way?" Paul then explained all that had happened since he had left Mr. Moncrief's brother. The stoppage on the way by the two men who had tried to wrest from him the letter, the death of poor Falcon, the loss of the letter and its recovery, his arrival at Oakville, and his discovery that Brockman was lying in wait for him at the house. "The scoundrels!" cried Mr. Moncrief, with flashing eyes, as he paced rapidly to and fro the room. Then, pausing again, he clasped Paul by the hand. "I gave you credit for a great deal, but I haven't given you half credit enough. So long as you do your duty as you have done it to-night, you have nothing to fear for the future. May God bless you, and have you always in His keeping, as He has had to-night. I will return with you home, and see that no harm befalls you by the way." Mr. Moncrief had already given orders that his trap should be in readiness as quickly as possible, and shortly after the servant entered and announced that the coachman was awaiting his master. "Good-bye, Paul! You'll look out for me at Garside, won't you?" cried Harry, as he went out. "Oh, yes, I'll look out for you!" said Paul, as he thought with a smile of the instructions Plunger had given Harry on his introduction to Garside School. Mrs. Moncrief kissed Paul as she wished him good-night, just as his mother did, and he could not help blushing. He wondered whether Connie Moncrief would do the same, and was much relieved on finding that she made no attempt to follow her mother's example. Nothing was to be seen of the man Brockman when they got outside. "He has smelt a rat, and when he found the horse was being harnessed, got away as quickly as possible," said Mr. Moncrief. "We shan't be troubled with him again to-night." Mr. Moncrief's surmise turned out to be correct. No further adventure befel them on the homeward journey. Paul learned, by the way, that the man Zuker was a German Jew of great ability and cunning. He was suspected to be a spy in the service of a foreign Government--which Government Mr. Moncrief did not mention, but Paul guessed which was meant. The spy's purpose in coming to England was to ascertain all he could as to the defences of the Thames and the Medway. "Can't you have the man arrested?" Paul asked, deeply interested in all he heard, and feeling more and more convinced that this man Zuker was the spy whom his father had saved from the sea at the risk of his own life. "He's too adroit. He's one of the craftiest spies the Admiralty has ever had to deal with. We can get no direct evidence against him. Neither do we know his exact whereabouts. He's like some nasty slug--you can only tell where he's been by the slime he leaves behind. Of course, he has one or two confederates to help him." "I trust they aren't Englishmen, sir?" said Paul. "I trust so, too. But I fear there are still Judases in the land--men who would betray their country, as Judas betrayed his Lord and Master, for money, though the price would be a great deal more than thirty pieces of silver. Our enemies would give a great deal to get a draft of some of the plans in the archives of the Admiralty, I can tell you, Paul." By this time they had reached Paul's home, to the great relief of Mrs. Percival and Mr. Henry Moncrief, who had begun to fear that some mishap had befallen Paul by the way. By the latter's request nothing was said to his mother about the peril in which he had stood, for fear of alarming her. The two brothers had a short interview together. Then, as Mr. Henry Moncrief's leg was still painful, it was decided that he should remain at Rosemore--Paul's home--that night, and return to his own home the next morning. His brother returned to Oakville that same night. The next morning a carriage came for Mr. Henry Moncrief, to which he was able to limp by the assistance of a manservant. "I shan't regret the accident which has introduced me to you and your son, madam," said he, as he wished Paul and his mother good-bye through the carriage window. "I have to thank you for your hospitality, and him for the great service he has done me. God bless him and you!" It was almost an echo of words Paul had heard before, but they fell none the less sweetly on his ears. That night he dreamed he was hard at work on the prize essay, "The Invasion of Great Britain," and that just as he had finished it, a shadow fell across the room. He turned round to see whence the shadow came, and saw that it was--Zuker! Then he melted into thin air. When Paul turned to his essay he found that that had disappeared, too. In the shock of the discovery he awoke. Some one was bending over him, but it was not Zuker. It was his mother. "What is it, dear?" she asked anxiously. "You cried out so loudly that I thought something dreadful had happened." "Cried out! What?" "Help! help!" "Oh," said Paul, laughing, but shivering in spite of himself, "I was dreaming--that is all! I'm sorry to have disturbed you, mother." The day following, the vacation was at an end, and Paul returned to Garside. It was an old, turreted building, dating a couple of centuries back. Flying from the west turret was a flag, known as the "old flag at Garside." It had a history which was dear to every boy in the school. It had been taken by Captain Talbot in the Crimea. The captain had formerly been a scholar at Garside. He died soon after of his wounds, and left the flag as a legacy to the school. "Keep the flag flying at the old school," he said, almost with his last breath. And then God received his spirit. The flag was very much stained, and had scarcely any of the original pattern remaining; but, none the less, the boys were prouder of that flag than any other decoration in the school. Just as Paul came in sight of it flying from the turret, a timid voice sounded in his ear: "Is that Garside, please?" Paul, looking down at the speaker, saw a weak-looking, wizen-faced boy, with pale, thin cheeks, and one shoulder slightly higher than the other. In a word, he was a hunchback. Paul could not help a slight start as he looked at him. The boy was quick to notice it, and a slight wave of colour came to the pallid cheek. Paul was annoyed at himself for having betrayed astonishment, and answered kindly: "Yes; that is Garside. Are you going there?" The boy nodded. "Very well; we'll go along together. Do you mind taking my arm? The fellows are rather a rough lot till you get to know them. Your first term, isn't it?" The boy looked his gratitude as Paul took him by the arm. "Yes; my first term," he said. "Do you know anybody at the school?" "Nobody. I'm quite a stranger." He spoke with a foreign accent, and Paul wondered who he could be. At the same time he could not help pitying the solitary boy. He would have rather a sorry time of it amongst the other "Gargoyles." "Well, youngster"--a junior was always "a youngster" in the eyes of his senior--"if I can be of help to you at any time, don't be afraid to come to me. What is your name?" "Hibbert--Tim Hibbert. And--and if you don't mind, I'd like to know yours?" Paul told him his name, and they entered the grounds together. A number of the boys had already arrived. Some stood in small groups, talking and laughing about incidents that had happened during the vacation. Others were playing at leapfrog, or chasing each other from pillar to post. Those nearest to the gates paused in their games as Paul entered, and stared at the hunchback. Newall, a senior, said something about "Percival and his camel." The remark was as cruel as offensive. Paul did not mind for himself, but he did for his companion. He glanced at Hibbert, and again noticed the delicate colouring mount to the pale cheek. He had evidently caught the sense of Newall's remark, too. "They have rough speech as well as rough ways, haven't they?" the boy remarked quietly. "Some of them--yes; but you mustn't mind that. They're not such a bad lot, take them altogether." Newall was one of the most arrogant boys at Garside. He had a rough tongue, and loved to domineer. You will always find your Newalls in every public school, no matter where it be. They are terrors to the nervous, sensitive boy; but they always succeed in attracting to themselves followers, lads of like dispositions to themselves. Paul knew well enough that Newall intended the remark for his benefit, but he paid no heed to it. He looked round the ground in the hope of finding Stanley Moncrief, but saw nothing of him. "Perhaps he's gone to meet that young cousin of his," he said to himself, as his mind went back to Oakville, and the never-to-be-forgotten evening on which he had met Harry Moncrief. Hibbert wished to be taken to Mr. Weevil the science master, as he was to receive his introduction to the school through that gentleman. Paul accordingly took him to Mr. Weevil's rooms. He was fortunate enough to find the master in. He was a sallow-complexioned man, with thin, clean-shaven lips. He had a restless, hungry-looking pair of eyes, which went up quickly to Paul as he entered the room. "What is it, Percival?" "I've brought along a new boy, sir--Hibbert." "Hibbert?" Mr. Weevil at once rose from his seat, and eyed the boy keenly; then his hand went out to the lad: "Welcome to Garside. You can leave us, Percival." Thus summarily dismissed, Paul went out, leaving Hibbert and the science master together. It seemed as though the master were favourably impressed with the new boy--in spite of the fact that he was a hunchback. "Bravo, Weevil! That's a point in your favour, at any rate. I didn't think that you had much pity for any one. Poor little chap!" His heart went out in sympathy to the little hunchback. What a shadow his deformity must cast upon his life? "They say that hunchbacks are spiteful, and I don't wonder at it. But Hibbert doesn't seem a spiteful sort of fellow. Where did he pick up that foreign accent, I wonder?" As he thought of him, he could not help thinking how thankful he ought to be to God that he was healthy and straight of limb. It was not till he came in contact with poor, deformed creatures like Tim Hibbert that he understood God's goodness to himself. "Not more than others I deserve, Yet Thou hast given me more," he said softly to himself as he returned to the ground. He had not gone far before he saw Stanley Moncrief coming towards him. He was about Paul's age and height, with a like ruddy complexion, and frank, open face. The two chums were delighted to meet again, especially as so much had happened since their last meeting. Arm in arm they walked about the ground talking eagerly, when their conversation was suddenly interrupted by a shout of laughter from the other end of the ground. "I say, Paul, that looks very much like my young cousin coming towards us," said Stanley, looking in the direction whence the laughter came. "What on earth has the little ass been doing with himself?" CHAPTER VI HARRY MONCRIEF ARRIVES AT GARSIDE Well might Stanley ask the question. His young cousin had attired himself in the most extraordinary fashion. His trousers--plaid ones--were turned up three or four inches at the bottom, as though for the purpose of displaying to the utmost advantage the white spats on his patent shoes, while surmounting the lower half of him was a gorgeous white waistcoat, cutaway jacket, and tall hat. Paul could not help smiling, for he at once saw the reason of this remarkable attire. Young Moncrief had followed out precisely the instructions sent him by his friend Plunger. "He seems to have got himself up regardless of expense, Stan," smiled Paul. "He means making an impression on the school. But you needn't scowl so, old fellow. It's all done for your sake. He thinks it the correct form, and doesn't want to let you down." "Correct form--don't want to let me down!" repeated Stanley, bewildered. "What on earth are you driving at?" Thereupon Paul related to Stanley the conversation he had had with Harry on the day he had visited Oakville, and the mysterious document he had shown him from Plunger as to the correct way to dress, and what to do on entering Garside. "And the little soft has nibbled at Plunger's bait," laughed Stanley. "It isn't a bad joke, and I suppose I mustn't spoil it." So Stanley and Paul kept out of the way of the throng of boys who, with Harry Moncrief in their midst, were making their way across the grounds in the direction of the schoolhouse. Harry, with his arm linked in Plunger's--a dark boy, with mischief-sparkling eyes--seemed quite unconscious of the fact that the boys were laughing at him. "Bax is busy with some of the other freshers," Plunger was saying; "so you'd better get over your introduction to Mrs. Trounce, and we'll hunt up old Bax after." "All right, Freddy," answered Harry, quite elated at the thought that he had at last entered a public school where there were boys bigger and older than himself, and that he was being initiated into its mysteries and ways. "After that I suppose I can find my cousin?" "Oh, yes!" "And there's a chum of his I met at home during the vac.--Paul Percival. Do you know him?" "Ra-ther. He's one of the seniors--in the same form as your cousin. I didn't know that you knew him." "I've only met him once, but I should like to meet him again. Pater thinks no end of him." "Oh, you'll see plenty of him at Garside--a good deal too much. Those Upper Form fellows think no end of themselves, I can tell you. This way to the divine Trounce. You haven't forgotten?" "Of course not; I've got all the rules by heart. See, here's the photo." He drew from his pocket a photograph of himself as he spoke, with some writing on the bottom, which he handed to Plunger. The boys following behind grew black in the face trying to choke down their laughter. "Jolly good of you, Harry!" exclaimed Plunger, regarding the photograph admiringly. "I didn't know you were such an awfully good-looking fellow. Trounce will think a lot of it, I can tell you." The matron's rooms were a modern addition to the school, at the end of the building. Mrs. Trounce, who was at heart rather an amiable woman, was busily engaged in her room sorting out an endless array of boys' wearing apparel. Her motherly face, therefore, wore an unusually severe and worried expression as the boys entered the room. The windows outside were suddenly darkened with innumerable faces peering through the window. "I have the honour--the distinguished privilege," said Plunger, with an elaborate bow to the matron, "of presenting to you Master Henry Moncrief, of Oakville." Upon this he gave Harry a nudge, and Harry promptly fell on his right knee before the matron, and drawing from his pocket the photograph he had just shown to Plunger, presented it to Mrs. Trounce with a bow, and "Allow me, madam." A titter came from the faces pressed against the windows outside. Mrs. Trounce took the photograph. The severity of her face did not relax, nor did it soften when, looking from the photograph, she saw the words beneath it, "With love and kind regards." She looked for the moment as though she were about to administer to Harry a sound box on the ears, but, altering her mind, she bestowed it instead on the ears of Master Plunger. "With my love and kind regards, Master Plunger!" she exclaimed. The titters outside grew louder. "Oh, thanks--so much!" said Plunger, with his hand to his ear at this totally unexpected reception, which he had anticipated to be the portion of his chum. "Come along, Harry; we won't waste any more of Mrs. Trounce's time. She's very busy. I'll show you your sleeping quarters, and then we'll hunt up Bax." He beat a hasty retreat from the room, half anticipating that if he stayed longer the matron might seek to balance matters by boxing the other ear. "Why did she do that, Freddy?" asked Harry, when they had got safely from the room. "It was your photo that did it, Hal; that's quite certain. I noticed how she changed colour when she looked at it. It must have reminded her of some unhung scoundrel she's met with in the course of her career, and she took it out of me. She knows I like to suffer for my friends. That's my great weakness. I hope you'll make a better impression on Bax." He led the way as he spoke through a winding passage and up the staircase to the dormitories. He entered one on the door of which was painted "E." It was a good-sized room, with six cubicles, side by side, with their heads to the windows. Over each was a text of Scripture, while on a larger card, at one end of the dormitory, in illuminated letters, were the words, "Thy word is a lamp unto my feet." At the other end was a corresponding card, on which was printed, "Motto for the year, 'Be ye stedfast, unmovable.--1 Cor. xv. 58.'" "There's your cubicle--next to mine; so that'll be jolly," said Plunger, pointing to a couple of beds at the end of the room. "The other fellows in the dorm. are Baldry, Sedgefield, and Viner." "But that only makes three. There are four beds." "Oh, yes! The fourth bed was Mellor's, but his pater took him away for some reason or other last term. He's gone over to the enemy." "The enemy?" "Don't you know who the enemy is? The Beetles--the bounders at St. Bede's. Pretty saints they are, too! You'll know enough of them before you've finished here, I warrant. They call us 'Gargoyles.' Cheeky bounders, aren't they?" Before Hal had finished there! Lightly the words were spoken. Neither paid much heed to them. But how much was to happen before Hal Moncrief had finished at Garside. Neither could see into the future--behind that veil which young and old are ever trying to peer through, but which God in His infinite love and mercy keeps ever close drawn. That lamp of His--the lamp of which the card spoke at the end of the dormitory--is for ever burning, however, and there is no fear of our footsteps stumbling so long as we walk by its light. Then the dark veil which hides the future need have no terror for us, boys and girls; for we know that when it is at last lifted it will only reveal to us the still greater light beyond. "Baldry and Sedgefield are decent fellows. I don't care much for Viner. He's rather deep, and does fagging now and then for Newall--a chap in the same form as your cousin. By the by, don't mention Newall to your cousin. It's like waving a red flag before a mad bull. They're this way." He crossed his two forefingers as he spoke, as an indication of Stanley and Newall's attitude to each other. Hal pondered over this information for a moment. His cousin, then, had his enemies? By the brief glimpse which Plunger had given him of the life at Garside, he could see that it was not all plain sailing. There were deeper currents than any he had seen at Gaffer Quelch's school. The waves beat with stronger force, and there were shoals and rocks. "Who'll take the empty bed? Will it be left empty?" "There's not much fear of that. I wish there would, but they're sure to put some fresher in it. I hope he's a decent chap, that's all! If he isn't, we must make it warm for him. But come along, let's get outside!" They turned to the door, but as they did so it opened, and Mr. Weevil entered, followed by Hibbert, the weak little hunchback, whom we have already met with in the grounds. The deep-set eyes of the science master went to Plunger, from Plunger to Hal, whom he had never seen before. "Who are you? What are you doing here, sir?" He spoke in a sharp, quick voice, and Harry knew at once that he was in the presence of one of the masters, and the same instinct somehow told him that the master was Mr. Weevil, of whom he had heard, but never seen. "I'm Harry Moncrief, cousin of Stanley Moncrief, sir." "Oh!" The master half closed his eyes as he spoke. Hal thought that he was going off to sleep as he stood there. Plunger knew better. He knew that Mr. Weevil had the habit of seeing a good deal more through his half-closed eyes than when they were wide open, and that he was taking "full stock"--a mental inventory--of Harry. He kept them closed for so long that Harry felt more and more certain that he was going to sleep. When he thought he was right off, the master startled him by opening them to their widest extent, as much as to say, "Thought me napping, did you? But I'm not! I'm awake!--wide awake!--very much awake!" "Glad to meet you!" he said in a softer voice. "Trust you will get on well at Garside. Your father is a gentleman of some distinction. I hope you will follow in his footsteps. This is Hibbert"--introducing the hunchback. "He also is a new boy. I trust you will be friends--close friends. He has no friends or relatives in England. His father is abroad on foreign service. That appeals to your sympathy, as it has appealed to mine--does it not?--and will draw you closer to Hibbert. He will occupy this dormitory--the bed vacated by Mellor." Then, turning to Hibbert: "I hope you will prove more loyal to Garside than your predecessor--Mellor, I mean--and that you will endeavour, along with Moncrief here, to keep up the best traditions of Garside. You see our motto for the year"--he pointed to the motto as he spoke--"'Be ye stedfast, unmovable.'" "Yes, sir." "Keep to that, and you won't go far wrong." When he had given this advice, the master left the dormitory with Hibbert, who, occupied in observing his new quarters and companions, had not spoken during the interview. "A queer sort of chap, our new bedfellow, isn't it, Freddy?" "And Weevil's a beastly fraud!" said Plunger, with a shrug of the shoulders. "But, come, we must hurry up! You haven't yet been introduced to good old Bax." Soon they were in the grounds again. The same crowd of boys that had followed them to the matron's was hanging about the door as they went out, and began tittering again as Harry came in sight. Harry did not notice them, nor did he notice the wink that Plunger gave them as he glanced in their direction. "Great Scott!" he suddenly exclaimed. "There's Bax! Hurry up, Hal!" And, linking his arm in Harry's, he hurried him in the direction of a short, somewhat corpulent man in buttons, who was just coming from the lodge. "Is it the porter?" asked Harry. "Yes, the porter. You haven't forgotten the rules? Hurry up!" CHAPTER VII A BAD COMMENCEMENT FOR THE TERM No need to tell Harry to hurry up. He was as anxious to introduce himself to the porter as Plunger could have been. So, running forward, he quickly gained the porter's side, and brought his hand down twice, vigorously, upon that worthy's shoulder, and, before Bax had recovered from his astonishment, dug the forefinger of his right hand sharply into his side, exclaiming: "How do you do, Mr. Bax? Age, twelve--just turned; weight, five stone ten; biceps, eight inches; chest, twenty-eight; vaccinated, three places!" The little porter grew purple in the face. He gasped for breath. When he had recovered, he returned the vigorous slaps he had received upon the back by a still more vigorous slap upon the head of Harry. "Vaccinated in three places, are you, young gent. That will vaccinate you in four. Don't get practising any of your larks on Bax. He's not the one to stand it, young gent." And, so saying, the porter strutted indignantly off. Harry had reeled under the vigorous blow of the porter; but just before he recovered, a hand came down on his top-hat, and crushed it over his ears, while a voice cried, amid roars of laughter, "Vaccinated in four places!" As Harry with difficulty drew himself from under the crushed hat, he found himself confronted by the boy who had crushed it. It was Robert Newall--the boy who had taunted the hunchback. He was a big, strong-looking fellow, with sandy hair, prominent nose, prominent teeth, and bold, self-confident face. "Vaccinated in four places!" repeated Newall, with a mocking laugh. "What asylum have you escaped from, kiddie?" "Who are you? What did you do that for?" gasped Harry indignantly, smoothing out his hat, and looking round helplessly for his friend Plunger. But now that one of the Senior Form had taken up the baiting, Plunger had been compelled to give way to him. He was only a cipher in the mob of laughing, jeering boys who had gathered round Harry. "Chest, twenty-eight inches. What a Samson it is!" jeered Newall. "All your own?" He tapped Harry smartly on the chest with his knuckles, as though he were testing it. "Yes, genuine article. You're a wonder--a perfect wonder! And what's the biceps! Eight inches! Why, it's a regular Hercules! It isn't every day that a marvel like you comes to Garside; so walk round and show your muscle, kid." Harry now saw that they were poking fun at him. His face was scarlet; he was quivering with indignation. He was choking. The tears seemed very near the floodgates. It was only with a strong effort he kept them back. He did not answer his tormentor, but stared at him blank-eyed. "Did you hear what I said?" went on Newall. "Come, wake up--walk!" With a flip of his hand he sent the hat which Harry had been trying to smooth out whirling amongst the throng of boys. There was a shriek of laughter as the hat was caught, and sent whirling in turn to another part of the throng. This was the finishing stroke to Harry. He burst into a flood of passionate tears. The public school boy holds in contempt the boy who cries. He regards it as girlish, unmanly. "Oh, the fresher's a soft!" came from one in the throng. "A soft, a soft!" passed from lip to lip. Plunger alone was dumb. He had not wished that the joke which he had begun at Harry's expense should go so far; but now that it had been taken from his hands he was powerless to stop it. "Oh, it's a squealer--a dear little squealer! Has it brought its bib and tuck and feeding-bottle?" went on Newall, amid the laughter of his companions. Harry tried to choke back the scalding tears, which were coursing down his cheeks. "You're--you're a cruel brute!" came bursting from his lips. "Oh, the little squealer's got a tongue, and it can speak! Come, come, walk!" Harry did not stir. So Newall gave him a push which sent him over to one side of the throng, where another push sent him quickly back again. The sport was only at its commencement, when it was suddenly checked by Stanley Moncrief forcing his way through the throng, closely followed by Paul Percival. They had been in the fives court while Plunger and Harry had been inside the schoolhouse, and it was not till their return to the ground that they caught sight of the throng of boys, of which Harry was the centre. On making their way towards it, Paul soon saw what was happening. "They're baiting a fresher!" he exclaimed. "And it's my young cousin!" cried Stanley. He had no objection to a little fun at Harry's expense. Indeed, it was the ordeal which every new-comer to Garside had to go through in some form or other. But this seemed more than fun--more than a joke. Otherwise, his cousin would not be in tears. And it was not only the sight of his cousin in tears--it was the sight of his tormentor--Newall, whom he cordially disliked. "Stop that!" he cried, with flashing eyes and clenched fists, as he reached the centre of the throng. "He's my cousin!" "Oh, your cousin, Moncrief!" answered Newall, resenting this intrusion on Stanley's part. "Nice little girl, isn't she? Heard her squeal?" At a gesture from him, Viner--one of the boys who belonged to the dormitory in which Harry had been placed--stooped down at the back of the unsuspecting lad. Newall gave him a sudden push, with the result, of course, that he came to the ground over Viner's back. Unfortunately his head struck on the gravel, and when he scrambled to his feet again blood was flowing freely from a cut in his head. Stanley Moncrief was a quick, hot-tempered lad, and his temper was now thoroughly aroused. Before Paul could check him, he sprang at Newall, when he saw what had happened to his cousin. The two wrestled for a moment, then separated. Paul stepped in to stop fighting, but before he could do so Stanley had shot out his arm blindly. It passed over Paul's shoulder, caught Newall on the mouth, and sent him reeling to the ground. Angry passions thus roused, it is impossible to say how the quarrel would have ended; but Mr. Weevil appeared on the scene, just as Newall had leapt to his feet, eager to return the blow Stanley had given him. "What does this mean?" he demanded sternly. "Fighting?" Not a word fell from the boys. The tumult had ceased as by magic. "Do you hear me? I will stand no trifling! A nice commencement of the term. Taking advantage of the absence of Dr. Colville, eh?" came the stern voice of the science master, as his eyes went round the group. Dr. Colville, the Head of Garfield, had been taken ill during the vacation, and had been ordered complete rest from his duties for another month or so by his medical adviser. In his absence the reins of government had fallen into the hands of Mr. Weevil, as second in command. Still no answer from the boys. They were as silent as before. It seemed as though they had been smitten with sudden dumbness. "Lost your tongues, eh? They were going briskly enough a minute since!" went on the master grimly. Then he paused, and fixed his eyes upon Stanley. "Moncrief major! It was you who started this disturbance. You struck Newall!" "Yes, sir, I struck Newall," assented Stanley. "Why?" "Ask Newall, sir." "I am asking you, sir!" came the sharp retort. "Why did you strike Newall? Quick, your answer!" Stanley waited for Newall to speak; but Newall's lips, bleeding and swollen from the blow, were tightly compressed. He scarcely heard the master's words. He could only think of the blow he had received. It was rankling in his mind, and turning to bitter hate the ill-feeling that already existed between him and Stanley. It was the first seed of hate that in the time to come was to bring forth a bitter harvest of tares. Ah, boys, beware of the first seeds of hate! Pluck them from you, as you would your hand from the fire. Otherwise they will spring up so quickly that they will wind themselves, like poisonous weeds, round every fibre of your being, blighting and strangling all the better impulses of your nature, killing, above all, the choicest blossom that comes to us from the Divine garden--the blossom of love. Where hate flourishes, love cannot be. There is no room for the two. Never since the world began have they ever flourished side by side--never since the seeds of hate were planted by the serpent in the first garden, the Garden of Eden. Beware, then, of the seeds of hate! From a fine sense of honour, Stanley remained silent. Now that he had struck Newall he had no wish to implicate him. He began to feel some pity for him as he saw the blood slowly trickling from his mouth. "Am I to understand that you refuse to speak, Moncrief?" demanded Mr. Weevil angrily. Stanley remained obstinately silent. "Perhaps you will allow me to explain, sir!" began Paul. Instantly Mr. Weevil swung round to him. "Not a word, sir! Have the goodness to speak when you're spoken to. The explanation must first come from Moncrief. If he has not yet learned the lesson of obedience, he must begin to learn it. When he has given me his explanation, I shall be quite willing to hear whatever else has to be said. Now, Moncrief, I am waiting. It is your last chance." He waited, but Stanley remained obstinately silent. Mr. Weevil's sallow face darkened. "Very well; I'm very sorry, but I must teach you that I'm not to be defied simply because Dr. Colville is away. I must teach you that I mean to be obeyed during his absence. Perhaps a few hours in Dormitory X will bring you to your senses." Dormitory X--a shortened form for "Extra Dormitory"--was a dormitory apart from all the rest in which, on rare occasions, a pupil was confined. It was not, as Mr. Weevil had said, a very good commencement for the term; but Stanley saw that it was useless rebelling, so he submitted to his fate as cheerfully as he could. "You haven't acted very well over this matter," said Paul, crossing over to where Newall was standing, as Stanley walked away a prisoner. "Acted very well!" exclaimed Newall, all the passion that had been rankling within him surging up. "How do you mean?" "You ought to have spoken up. Moncrief was waiting for you to speak." "Speak!" cried Newall contemptuously. "Why should I have spoken? I didn't want to speak. All I wanted was to get that blow back that Moncrief gave me; and I'll have it back yet, if--if I die for it!" He turned on his heel and walked away. There was so much passion and hatred in the words that even the lightest-hearted amongst the boys were impressed by them. "Newall's got his dander up," said Sedgefield, a rather good-looking, fair boy, another of the occupants of Harry's dormitory. "And Weevil looked as though he meant business. What a start for the term!" They strayed away one by one. Paul, turning over in his mind what had happened, thought he was alone. But presently he was conscious that some one was standing by his side. It was Harry Moncrief. "Have you forgotten me, Percival?" the boy asked timidly, for his confidence in himself had been shaken by the events of the last half-hour. "Oh, no; I beg pardon for not speaking to you. I'm glad to see you at Garside." "And I--I'm beginning to be very sorry that I ever came here. I've made an ass of myself, and got Stan into a mess in the bargain. What's to be done?" "Nothing--just yet. It won't hurt Stanley to be by himself a little while. I'm as much to blame as anybody, perhaps, as I ought to have put you on your guard against Plunger. But it's bad form here to spoil the fun of any one, and that is why I was silent. We shall all survive it. It doesn't hurt us to be laughed at sometimes. Most of us have had our turn at it; so don't be down in the mouth." He linked his arm in Harry's, and under the influence of Paul's cheerful talk the younger boy threw off the depression that had begun to steal over him, and was more cheerful. And all the time he was speaking a strong resolve was silently forming in Paul's breast. Whatever happened he would visit Stanley in Dormitory X that night! CHAPTER VIII FOR THE SAKE OF A CHUM Nine--half-past! The clock in the tower had chimed the half-hour when lights were out in Paul's dormitory. In the senior dormitories there were only four beds--two less than in the junior. In that where Paul slept there were, therefore, three other occupants beside himself--Stanley Moncrief, Waterman, and Parfitt. Parfitt was not on particularly good terms with most of the fellows. He was one of Newall's cronies. Waterman was an easy-going fellow, who was on friendly terms with everybody, so long as they did not disturb him too much. He was one of those indolent boys, with plenty of talent, if they only care to exercise it. The disposition to do so, however, only came by fits and starts. In another respect, too, he was like a great many other boys--ay, and girls, too--and that was--he would often go to a great deal more pains to avoid a difficulty than it would have caused him by boldly facing it. So true is the proverb that lazy people often take most pains. Ten o'clock! Paul looked from his bed. There was the bed in which Stanley ought to have been sleeping--empty! Next to that, Waterman. He had been asleep for some time. Beyond his bed was Parfitt's. Was he sleeping? Paul was not quite certain, but he thought he was. It would be better to wait a little longer, however. There was no hurry. He could see in outline, on the wall beyond Parfitt's bed, the motto for the year, "Be ye stedfast, unmovable." He liked that motto. It had appealed to him when he had first seen it on the wall, and he had often repeated it to himself since. He had repeated it frequently to himself that night. "Be ye stedfast"--stedfast to his friend. The empty bed beside him made him sad. Stan ought to have been resting there. By the stern decree of Mr. Weevil he had been turned from his bed, and was at that moment a prisoner, in solitary confinement. For what? Simply because he had refused to speak. Oh, it was bitterly unjust. If any one ought to have been sent to Dormitory X it was Newall, but he had escaped without even a word of blame. Half-past ten! Paul listened again. He felt certain that Parfitt was at last sleeping; so he slipped out of bed as he had slipped into it--with his trousers and stockings on. He drew on his coat; opened the dormitory door, and glanced along the corridor. As he did so, the figure in the end bed moved, and glanced in the direction of Paul; then breathed hard, as though it were sleeping. Paul, unconscious that Parfitt had seen him, passed into the corridor. Dormitory X was in the room next to that occupied by Mr. Weevil, on the floor above. Paul crept up the stairs. They seemed to creak horribly, but it was the silence of the building that magnified the sound to Paul's ears. He glanced along the passage. A light was still burning in Mr. Weevil's room. He could see it stealing faintly through a crack in the door. "Studying late. Trying some scientific experiment, I expect. The fellows say that he burns the midnight oil a lot. That's what gives him such a sleepy look sometimes, I suppose. No wonder he's such a dab at science." Paul knew that it was useless to try to get to Stanley along the passage. He might succeed in getting past the master's room, but what then? The door would be locked, and he could not pass through a locked door. Dormitory X had a window looking on to the parapet outside, and it was by this window he hoped to gain Stanley's room. There was a small lavatory at the end of the corridor, and this likewise had a window leading to the roof. "Be stedfast!" he whispered to himself, as he climbed through the window to the parapet. It was a rash thing to do--a wrong thing. Though Paul might have questioned the justice of what Mr. Weevil had done in putting his chum in Dormitory X., he had no right, from a chivalrous feeling of friendship, to run the risk of a foolhardy adventure at night. But Paul thought that he was right, and that, by visiting Stanley, he was interpreting in the best way he could the school motto, "Be stedfast." There were but few stars in the heavens as he stepped on to the parapet. The wind blew freshly, and the clouds were scurrying quickly across the moon. It was a plain Gothic parapet, in keeping with the time-worn building. It rose a couple of feet above the gutter, and the latter, in turn, was nearly of the same width; so that there was not much difficulty in walking along it to the dormers. Glancing along the gutter, Paul saw that the light was still burning in Mr. Weevil's room. The window beyond was in darkness. That was where Stanley was? Would it be possible for him to reach it without being seen by Mr. Weevil? He meant trying. Stealing cautiously along the gutter, he stopped within a yard or so of the master's window. What was that? The sound of voices, and it came from Mr. Weevil's room. "Chewing over science with one of the other masters," thought Paul. "It's jolly late to be talking that dry stuff. But hanged if I don't think Weevil talks it in his sleep; he's so hot on it. He ought to be amongst the fossils in the museum. I don't believe he's got any warm blood in him. He was never meant for a human being. Steady--steady." He knelt on the gutter, and stretched himself along till he was just able to peer into the room. A lamp was burning on the table, on which were strewn a number of papers and documents. Over these two men were leaning, as though they were earnestly discussing their contents. "Some musty old parchments from the Assyrians or the lost Ten Tribes, I expect," Paul told himself. "But who's the other fossil? I don't seem to know him. Not one of the masters here." He could not see either of the faces very clearly as they bent over the documents; but one he knew to be Mr. Weevil's. The other was a stranger's. "Why doesn't he look up?" Paul asked himself, growing curious. The man was tracing something with his finger on the document before him, and Mr. Weevil was following the direction of his finger with the closest attention. Presently the man raised his head. In spite of himself Paul cried out. The men heard the cry, and he had only just time to draw back as they turned to the window. Paul lay there breathing hard. Would he be found out? His heart beat violently as he heard footsteps approach the window. It was opened, and the head of the master thrust out. Paul thought that he must be found out. There seemed no help for it. He gave himself up for lost. Fortunately, the light of the moon was quite obscured at this moment, and Paul seemed only a part of the shadows that were flitting over parapet and roof. "It sounded very much like the cry of a human being," said the master, peering out, "but it couldn't have been. It must have been the wind, or a night-bird." Then, to Paul's inexpressible relief, he heard the window close. Some seconds elapsed, however, before he ventured to look up. He feared, in spite of the closed window, to find the eyes of the master fixed upon him. Should he turn back? No; that would be acting the coward's part. Besides, he must catch another glimpse of the face he had seen. Presently he heard the murmur of voices within, and knew that the two had resumed their interrupted interview. So, taking his courage in both hands, Paul peeped once more into the room. Yes, he was sure of it. The man with whom Mr. Weevil was talking was Israel Zuker, the German Jew--the man who had tried to wrest from him Mr. Moncrief's letter--the man for whom he believed his father had sacrificed his life! Why had Zuker come there? Paul would have given a good deal to know what the two were talking about, but not a word of their conversation reached his ears. They were bending low, and spoke in little more than whispers. For one thing, that was an advantage. They were so earnestly engaged in conversation, that they were the less likely to notice anything that happened outside. Paul therefore determined not to put off any longer the effort to reach Stanley. He crept quickly to the other side of the window, then waited. He could still hear the hum of voices, so he felt sure that he had not been seen. "Now for old Stan. I'm sure he won't be asleep." Paul crept close to the window, and tapped on it with his nail. "Who's there?" said Stanley. The window was cautiously opened, and Paul slipped into the room. "Paul! You don't mean to say it's you!" exclaimed Stanley as their hands met in the darkness. "What's brought you here?" "To see you, of course." "Well, you can't see much of me, I'm thinking, by this precious light; so, if you won't mind me saying it, old chap, it was silly of you to come." "No it wasn't. I couldn't bear the thought of your moping here by yourself, and it was a ghastly shame of Weevil to send you." "Oh, come to think of it quietly, he was right enough! I dare say I could have got out of the pickle by speaking, but I was obstinate. Solitude isn't so bad," he added cheerfully. "It helps you to chew the cud of reflection." "And a bitter cud it is sometimes. That's why I've come. It's better for two to try their teeth on it than one." "It's very good of you, Paul, coming to me. Is Harry all right?" "Oh, he's all right, though he was rather cut up at your having to come here for him. It's Newall you'll have to look out for. He won't be satisfied till he's paid back that blow you gave him. He told me as much." "What did he say? Tell me the exact words." "After you had gone away with Mr. Weevil, I told Newall what I thought--that he had acted meanly in not speaking up. 'Why should I have spoken?' he burst out. 'I didn't want to speak. All I wanted was to get that blow back that Moncrief gave me; and I'll have it back, if I die for it!'" A sound of footsteps could be heard in the next room. In his desire to console Stanley in his solitude, Paul had said nothing about what he had seen in the master's room, though it had been uppermost in his mind all the time he had been speaking to Stanley. "Hallo! What's that? Weevil's guest on the move. Who is he, I wonder?" "Hush! Not so loud!" cautioned Paul, clutching Stanley by the arm. "You would never guess. You remember what happened to me on the night I took that packet to Oakville?" Paul had confided to his chum all that happened on that night. "Don't I? And I'm not likely to forget it in a hurry. I only wish that I'd been with you then, just as you're with me now. What about it?" "What about it? Why, the man in the next room is Israel Zuker." "Paul!" cried Stanley, rising to his feet in amazement. "Hush--don't I tell you!"--again clutching him by the arm, and pressing him to his former position. "Israel Zuker! I'm sure of it." "But what can he want with Mr. Weevil, and what can Weevil want with him?" "Ask me another. That's what floors me. Listen! Weevil is letting him out." They remained perfectly silent, as they listened to the footsteps in the passage; at first they were quite close, then they died away. Presently they heard Mr. Weevil returning alone. He paused as he was on the point of entering his own door, as though struck with an idea. "What's he up to now?" whispered Paul. They could hear the master enter the next room; then come out again. He stopped at Dormitory X. In another moment the light of a candle could be seen through a crevice in the door, and a key was put in the lock. "He's coming here!" exclaimed Stanley. CHAPTER IX GOOD ADVICE Instantly Paul crept under the bed, while Stanley as quickly crept in. Not an instant too soon, for the next moment the door opened and Mr. Weevil, candle in hand, entered. He held the light up, and glanced round the room; then came softly to the bed, and glanced down at Stanley. Stanley feigned sleep, but directly the light fell on his face he started up as though suddenly wakened, and, staring at the master with bewildered eyes, cried: "Where--where am I? What--what's the matter? Oh, it's Mr. Weevil. I beg your pardon, sir; but you so startled me. Is anything wrong?" "No; nothing wrong." Then the master added with a grim smile: "I only wanted to see if you were quite--comfortable." "As comfortable as one can be in a place like this, sir." "It was your own fault you came here, remember, and it is an easy matter for you to come out. I hope you've decided to give me an explanation to-morrow of that disgraceful scene I witnessed in the grounds." Stanley did not answer; and Mr. Weevil went out, locking the door once more behind him. It was not till he had gained his room that Paul crept from under the bed. "I put him off the scent, didn't I?" whispered Stanley. "If I hadn't started up like I did, he would have looked under the bed. I'm certain he would." "Very likely. The fat would have been in the fire then, with a vengeance. But how about the explanation he asks for? Why not? A few words will do it." "It's not coming from me, if I stick here the term through," came the dogged answer. "Let Newall speak first; I'll follow." Paul knew that it was extremely difficult to move Stanley from his purpose, when once he had decided on it. So he did not press the matter further just then, hoping that the morning would bring some change in the situation. His mind went back to the scene in the next room, and Stanley's went in the same direction, for the next moment he changed the subject by asking: "How did Weevil get to know that man Zuker, I wonder?" "That's what puzzles me. The only explanation I can see is that Weevil came across him in his travels, and is rubbing up his German by talking with him. Or perhaps they're interested in the same branch of science." "It's rather a late hour to patter German or science, isn't it?" The same thing occurred to Paul, but he could think of no other explanation of the mystery. "I wonder if the light's out now?" Paul climbed to the dormer, and, gently opening the window, looked along to that of the next room. It was now in darkness. "Well, now you had better get back to your own bed," said Stanley, when Paul had communicated to him the news. "I've come here for a night's lodging, and you're not going to be so hard-hearted as to turn me out." Stanley did not speak--in fact, he would have found it difficult at that moment. The fidelity of his friend appealed to him as few things could have done. It made him feel awfully soft, like a big girl or one of the kids in the junior forms. A senior schoolboy has always a great aversion to the display of emotion. He has a notion that it's unmanly and weak; so that when Stanley did speak he assumed a gruffness he was far from feeling. "Well, you're a muff--that's all I've got to say. I kick in my sleep sometimes--fearfully; so if you should find yourself on the floor in the night time, don't say that I haven't warned you." Paul smiled as he coiled himself up by the side of his chum; and soon they were fast asleep. Paul woke up at daybreak, and having expressed a hope that he would see Stanley back in his place that day, returned without mishap to his dormitory. The light was only just stealing into the room as he entered. His three companions seemed to be sleeping as placidly as they had done when he left them. "I wonder if I've been missed?" he asked himself, as he looked at the sleepers. "I don't think so." Had he seen the figure in the end bed--the same that had watched him the night before--open his eyes cautiously, and watch him curiously when his back was turned, he would have come to a different conclusion. However, he was just as unconscious that Parfitt was watching him as he had been the night before. He lay down for another hour, then rose before first bell had sounded, washed, dressed, and went out into the grounds. Early as it was he found Harry Moncrief there before him. He wore rather a dejected appearance. "I've had a beastly night, Paul," he said, coming forward to greet him. "I couldn't sleep thinking of Stan. It's the longest night I've ever had, and all the other fellows were snoring like steam-engines, except that new chap, Hibbert. I rather fancy Plunger had been playing pranks with his bed, but he didn't shout out or take on; so he was pluckier than I was. Do you think the fellows here will look down on me for snivelling?" "I cannot say. I hope so. Is young Hibbert out?" "He's somewhere about the ground, I think." Paul searched about the ground, but could see nothing of him. He turned into the field adjoining, and there he found him, sitting on the trunk of a tree, quite apart from the other boys, with his face resting on his hands. "He's just as soft as young Moncrief, but he's too proud to show it. He's been crying, I know." If the boy had been, he brushed away all sign of it when he heard Paul's footsteps, and started quickly to his feet. The frightened look in his eyes disappeared when he saw who it was. They grew quite bright in an instant. "What are you doing here, youngster?" said Paul kindly, placing a hand upon the boy's shoulder. "You're not going to be a moper, are you? That will never do." "A moper? No; but I'm different, I think, from most other boys. God has made me different, you see"--with a feeble attempt at a smile, as he glanced at his shoulder, "I don't care for the games most boys care for, and--and I like quiet places like this, away from the crowd." Paul could not help a feeling of pity as he followed the boy's glance to his deformed shoulder. He was acutely sensitive to his deformity, and that, perhaps, was the main reason why he shrank from the society of other boys--why he preferred solitude. "Have the youngsters in your dormitory been ill-treating you?" he asked, regarding Hibbert closely as he put the question. "Oh, no!" came the quick answer. "They've had their fun, of course, which I enjoyed as much as any of them. I never mind a joke--indeed I don't; so don't think they put upon me." Paul did not inquire what the jokes were. It was not well to inquire too curiously into the jokes of the juniors. He had been through that mill himself. Besides, though he pitied Hibbert, he didn't want to encourage him to tell tales out of school, especially as the boy seemed averse to the practice. "You're a plucky little chap and as good as you're plucky, I'll warrant." "Good--good? No, don't say that!" cried Hibbert, so earnestly that Paul could not help regarding him in wonder. He stood with his thin hands pressed tightly into each other, so that the nails seemed piercing into his flesh; and the eyes that looked into Paul's were quite wild and restless. In that moment it flashed into Paul's mind that he had seen eyes like Hibbert's before, but where he could not for the life of him make out. "Well, I won't say it if you don't like it," he laughed; "but you're the first one I've ever met with who objected to being thought good. I won't ruffle your feathers again. Come, let's get back to the ground!" On entering the ground one of the first they came across was Newall, along with his crony, Parfitt. Remembering the cruel jibe Newall had flung at Hibbert on the previous day, and what had afterwards happened between him and Stanley, Paul tried to avoid him. He felt as though he could hardly trust himself in his presence. But Newall would not be avoided. He came straight to them, and great was Paul's surprise when he said: "I think the advice you gave me yesterday was right enough, Percival. I ought to have spoken when the master asked for an explanation of the shindy between Moncrief and me. It might have saved him a night in that solitary hole--Dormitory X. But I mean speaking up this morning." "I'm very glad to hear it. I'm sure it's the right thing. Moncrief will be as pleased as I am." "Do you think so? Well, I'm glad of that; and I'm glad you think it's the right thing. I've slept on it, and that's what it's come to. Do you know, Percival, I'm beginning to think you an authority on the right thing to do? Parfitt is of the same mind. We were talking it over as you came up, so your ears must have been burning." Paul regarded him quickly. Was he in jest or earnest? His face was perfectly grave; so was the face of Parfitt. "Thanks for your flattering opinion. I shall know exactly how much to take to myself after you've spoken to Mr. Weevil." In spite of the apparent frankness of his manner and sincerity of tone, Paul could not help thinking that Newall was quietly mocking him--that he had no intention whatever of speaking to the master. "That's the boy who called me a dromedary," said Hibbert, as they turned away. "I shan't forget him. He has a cruel face." Hibbert spoke with more bitterness than Paul had yet heard from him, and there was a sparkle in his eyes, which sometimes had so much pain in them, that Paul had never seen in them before. "Now, look here, youngster, if you're going to remember every rough word you hear at Garside, you'll have to have a very good memory. So take my advice, forget all the things that aren't worth remembering, and remember only those that are. The jibe that fell from Newall isn't worth remembering. It's one of the things to forget. Promise me that you'll forget it?" "I'll try, as you ask me," said the boy sincerely, "though it'll be jolly hard. Things worth remembering! Yes, I know of one--your kindness. I shall always remember that." And before Paul could answer him he was gone. "A queer little beggar!" thought Paul. "He's got a good heart, though, in spite of the queer outside of him. Poor little chap, how lonely he seems!" Paul was more anxious than he had been for a long time for school to begin that day. It seemed for the sole purpose of thwarting him that it commenced later instead of earlier. Instead of commencing at the usual hour only one of the masters out of the six entered as the clock struck nine. Ten minutes elapsed, and still no masters. The boys commenced talking in whispers. What had happened? Something was wrong. An accident must have happened. Or could it be that the illness of the Head had taken a turn for the worse? Paul feared that the absence of the masters must be in some way due to Stanley. Perhaps they had discovered the visit he--Paul--had paid him in the night. Perhaps they were discussing what was to be done with him. These and a hundred other suspicions flashed through his mind as he waited the entrance of the masters. The hubbub in the school had grown louder. The boys no longer talked in whispers; their tongues were wagging loudly. Mr. Travers, the master in charge, made no effort to restrain them. He was himself talking to one of the Sixth Form boys. Suddenly, however, he broke off, and pressed the bell. "Silence!" he cried. In an instant the hubbub of voices ceased, as the door opened and the masters, headed by Mr. Weevil, entered the room. CHAPTER X TORN FROM THE BLACK BOOK Mr. Weevil came to his desk. The other masters took up their positions at the head of the different forms. Mr. Weevil half closed his eyes for an instant; then, opening them, fixed them fully upon the eager boys before him as he said: "I have a few words to say to you before work commences, boys, and I regret to say they are not of a very pleasant character. A most discreditable act--a criminal act--has been committed since we last met in this hall. This desk"--he turned from the boys to the desk, and brought his hand down upon it sharply--"has been forced open during the night, and five pages torn from the Black Book. That is not all. Admiral Talbot--one of the esteemed governors of this school--has offered a valuable prize, as you are all aware, for the best essay on 'The Invasion of Great Britain.' I have taken a great interest in the subject, and had prepared a few notes, together with a rough plan of the attempt made by the Dutch under Admiral Tromp to reach these shores. Those notes have gone." The boys glanced from one to the other as Mr. Weevil paused. Who was guilty? They had no great love for the Black Book, for in the pages of that black-bound ledger were entered the names of every culprit who had been guilty of breaking the rules and had received punishment at the hands of the masters. It could be brought forward at any time in evidence against them. They would willingly have stood by and seen it burnt, but forcing open the master's desk, stealing from it important papers, and tearing leaves from the dreaded book was another matter. It was theft--theft, too, under its worst guise, for the desk had been opened at night-time, when the rest of the school were supposed to be sleeping. "The last entry I made in this book," went on Mr. Weevil, holding up the Black Book, "was last evening, immediately after school was over. I had entered in it the reason of my sending Moncrief to Dormitory X. Before returning the book to its place, I glanced through my notes; then placed the book on top of them, and locked the desk. I entered the room about half-past eight this morning, and, on going to my desk, at once found that it had been opened--for what despicable purpose I have explained to you. In the absence of Dr. Colville, I consulted with my colleagues--your masters. That is the reason why the school has not commenced at the usual hour. We have looked at the matter in every way, and can only come to the conclusion that some one amongst you has been guilty of this petty felony. The culprit is pretty well sure to be found out in the long run, so that it will be much better for him to speak up now. The longer he keeps silent, the heavier will be his punishment. Now, then, I am waiting." Deep silence fell upon the school. Still, the boys glanced from one to the other. Parfitt flashed a look along the form to where Paul was sitting. Baldry quietly pinched Plunger, and Plunger returned the compliment by kicking him under the form; but no word broke the silence. Failing to get an answer to his appeal, Mr. Weevil tried another plan. "Did any boy leave his dormitory after lights were out last night?" A struggle went on in Paul's breast for a moment. Should he speak, or should he remain silent? If he spoke he would bring upon himself the terrible suspicion that he had broken open the master's desk, and had torn out the leaves in which were recorded the punishment of Stanley Moncrief. It was well known also that he was one of the competitors for the essay prize. And then if he confessed the real reason of his absence from his dormitory, who would believe him? Certainly not Mr. Weevil. How could he convince him that he was in Dormitory X that night, for had he not crawled under the bed at the time he looked in? Should he speak--should he speak? Again and again Paul asked himself the question. Why should he? What had his absence from his dormitory to do with the theft from the master's desk? He had been nowhere near the master's desk, so what was the use of speaking? Looking up, he caught the glance of Parfitt. "What the deuce is Parfitt glaring at me for?" he thought. "Is it possible that he could have seen me leave the dormitory?" As he put to himself the question, the voice of Mr. Weevil once more broke the silence: "Does any boy know whether any of his companions was absent from his dormitory last night? Don't let him keep silent under any false notion of honour. It is for the honour of the school that he should speak. If he speaks, I will take care that no punishment falls upon him." Paul sat rigid as stone. If Parfitt saw him leave the dormitory, now was his time to speak; but no voice broke the silence. "Very well; I had hoped that the culprit would own up to his fault, or that we should have had assistance from some of you to find him out. I am disappointed in my expectation. As I have been unable to find the culprit with your assistance, I must do so without it. And be sure I will," added Mr. Weevil firmly. Prayers were said and a hymn sung, and the boys were on the point of filing out to the different class-rooms, when Newall stepped up to Mr. Weevil's desk. "I hope Moncrief isn't to be kept in Dormitory X any longer, sir," he said. "What's it to do with you--eh?" "You forget, sir. I was in the row. I ought to have spoken at the time; it was I really started the row--not Moncrief." "You, was it? Let me hear how it all happened." "Well, I was chaffing a new boy, and the new boy happened to be Moncrief's cousin. It upset Moncrief, and I ought to have left off; but I didn't. I kept it up, and that's how it was Moncrief came to strike me." "Well, it's very honourable of you to own up to it. If every boy in the school was as honest as you, Newall, we should soon find out who was the culprit who went to my desk. Moncrief was guilty of a Quixotic act of disobedience, as it turns out, and I think, in the circumstances he has been sufficiently punished. It is due to you that he is released." Newall was quite the hero of the school that morning. He had done a manly thing in speaking up for Moncrief. That was the general opinion. Paul thought the same. He had scarcely expected Newall would act up to the promise that he had given him, but he had carried it out to the letter. He had, somehow, never liked him, but he couldn't be such a bad sort of fellow, after all. "I must try to get over my prejudice against him," he thought. So Stanley came back to his form, looking none the worse for the night he had spent in Dormitory X. It was not, however, till he and Paul were in the grounds that they had the chance of speaking together. "I thought Weevil meant keeping me in that wretched dormitory another day and night," Stanley said, as Paul cordially greeted him. "How did he come to let me out, I wonder?" "Guess." "Have you been speaking up for me?" "No; Mr. Weevil wouldn't listen to me yesterday, and he wouldn't have listened this morning. Guess again." "My young cousin, I suppose," answered Stanley, after a moment's reflection. "Has he been crying to Weevil?" "Wrong again." "Oh, bother! I give it up, then! Who was it?" "You would never guess. Newall!" "What?" Stanley stared at Paul incredulously. "Fact--Newall. And he did it very well, too. He owned up frankly before the masters and all the school that it was he who commenced the quarrel." "Why, I thought he told you that he wouldn't speak?" "So he did; but he has altered his mind, you see. He told me he was going to speak, but I couldn't believe my ears till I actually heard him. A night's reflection has done him good, though he hadn't the benefit of a change of air in Dormitory X. It's really very decent of him, and I rather fancy if I were in your place----" He paused, as though reflecting on what he should do if he were in Stanley's place. "Well, if you were in my place--go on." "I should go up to Newall and shake hands with him." "Would you really?" said Stanley haltingly. "I--I--don't think I can do that, Paul. There's so much bad blood between us." "All the more reason you should shake hands. It's wonderful what a shake of the hands does for bad blood. It's the finest leech in the world--takes all the bad blood out." "Oh, you're a better fellow than I am, and can do that sort of thing. I can't!" "Nonsense! It's like a plunge into cold water--quite nice when the plunge is once made. Come along! I'll go with you." He tucked his arm in Stanley's, and together they went in search of Newall. They found him with Parfitt and another companion. Stanley walked up to him. "I hear that it's through you, Newall, I've got out of that den I was in last night. You've done me a good turn, and, if--if--you don't mind, I'd like to shake hands with you." He held out his hand as he spoke, but Newall took no notice of it. He looked straight at Stanley. "I really didn't know that I'd done you a good turn. What was the good turn?" "Speaking up for me this morning to Mr. Weevil, and getting me out of that wretched dormitory." "Oh, that"--he broke into a mocking laugh--"that! You call that a good turn?" A wave of scarlet came to Stanley's face. The extended hand fell to his side. He looked to Paul. Had his friend deceived him? Was this only a ruse on his part to make him shake hands with Newall, or had Newall taken leave of his senses? He could learn nothing from Paul's face, except that it looked just as mystified as he was. "Certainly it was a good turn. I thoroughly upset Weevil yesterday, and goodness knows how much longer he would have kept me a prisoner if you hadn't spoken up for me, as Percival here tells me you did." "Of course he did," put in Paul cheerfully. "He spoke up to Weevil like a brick. It's no use trying to hide your light under a bushel, Newall." "Yes, it's true enough I spoke up to Weevil"--the mocking laughter had died out of Newall's eyes, and there was now a cruel, vindictive light in them, just as there had been when Paul had spoken to him the day before--"and it's true enough I wanted to get you out of that hole in the roof. But it wasn't to shake hands with you. Not at all. I got you out of that den so that I might meet you squarely face to face." Stanley began to understand. It was not from any kindly motive Newall had spoken up for him that morning. The bitterness of his words now told him that, and the vindictiveness in his eyes spoke even plainer than speech. Paul had been deceived, and he had been deceived. Why had he demeaned himself by asking a fellow like Newall to shake hands with him? He ought to have known better from past experience. "You understand?" went on Newall in the same bitter tone. "Oh, yes, I see you do. You struck me a blow. The marks of it are still here, you see"--pointing to his lip, which was discoloured and cut. "I'm glad of it. It kept me awake last night, thinking of you. And when I looked at myself in the glass this morning, I thought of you again. It's nice to have a memento of your friends, don't you think so?" Stanley did not answer. What answer was possible to these mocking jibes? Paul was silent, too. All power of speech seemed taken from him. "Well, I mean having that blow back--the cowardly blow you gave me over Percival's shoulder. I could give it to you now"--his fist was clenched as though he would have dearly liked to make good his words--"but that would only mean that one or the other would be sent to the den from which I've just rescued you. That would be idiotic and make matters worse." "You mean to say that you don't wish to end the quarrel between us. You wish to fight it out to the bitter end?" demanded Stanley, at last finding voice. "You've got it!" came the slow, firm answer--"to the bitter end!" CHAPTER XI FOR THE HONOUR OF THE FORM Paul was grieved at the turn things had taken. Just at the moment when he thought the quarrel ended it had burst out again in a deadlier form. Stanley was very pale. His hands were clenched, as were the hands of Newall, and the passion that distorted the one face was reflected in a lesser degree in the other. Hate never was, and never will be, a beautifier of the face. Like some subtle acid, it makes ugly lines. You will never see those lines in a beautiful or noble face, boys and girls. So, if you want to keep from getting ugly, never hate. Stanley was not only angry at the jibes of Newall, but angry at being led into a false position. "I really had no wish to shake hands with you. I'm just as keen on fighting it out as you are," he began. "One minute," interrupted Paul, stepping between them. "Let me have a word." "You get out of it, and speak when you're spoken to!" cried Newall roughly. "It was through you coming between us that I got this beauty-spot yesterday"--pointing to his swollen lip. "Hadn't you poked your nose in where it wasn't wanted this wouldn't have happened, and I would have given a good account of myself." "Sorry, and yet, come to think of it, I'm rather glad," answered Paul calmly, and not receding an inch from the position he had taken up. "Glad! How do you mean?" "Why, if it was through me you got that blow, your quarrel's with me, and not Moncrief. What's the use of trying to pay back to him what you owe to me?" This was a novel way of looking at the dispute which had not occurred to Newall. As he was not ready with an answer, Paul went on: "Besides, it was you who got me to speak to Moncrief on--excuse me saying so--false pretences. I thought you wanted to end the quarrel, to shake hands with him, and have done with it. It wasn't shaking hands you wanted, it seems, but clenched fists. I brought him here on a fool's errand; so the quarrel's mine, not his." Stanley wished to step in again, but Paul gently yet firmly held his ground. "I don't understand quite what you're driving at," said Newall. "It's a bit of a riddle; but if you want a thrashing as well as your friend, I dare say you can be obliged, but he comes first. Let him speak for himself. You can speak for yourself after. Now, Moncrief, no more shirking." "It's my quarrel, I say," Paul answered in the same firm tone, and still keeping Stanley back. "Of course, you think different, and Moncrief here thinks different, so let's appeal to the Form." "What's that?" cried Newall. "Appeal to the Form. The fellows will see things clearer than we can." The suggestion took Newall's breath away. "You really mean it?" "I really mean it." Newall thought a moment. An appeal to the Form was altogether a new thing, but as he had not the slightest doubt as to which way they would decide, why should he not fall in with it? "Does Moncrief agree to that?" Stanley nodded. "Very well; let it be as you say, Percival--an appeal to the Form." Paul, gratified that the quarrel had received a momentary check, was turning away with Stanley, when Parfitt, who had scarcely spoken throughout the scene, touched him on the shoulder. "One minute. Just a little word with you." He used in effect the same words as Paul had used when he stood between Newall and Stanley. "Didn't you find it rather cold in the corridor last night--eh?" he asked, with a meaning smile. Before Paul could answer, Parfitt followed in the footsteps of Newall. Cold in the corridor last night? What did Parfitt mean? The instant Paul put to himself the question the answer came to him--Parfitt must have seen him leave the dormitory in the night. Was there anything else in his question? Yes, he felt sure there was something behind it. "What was it, Paul? What did he want with you?" asked Stanley, coming up to him. "He wanted to know whether I was in the corridor last night. I thought all the fellows were asleep, but he must have been awake, playing the spy." "What of it? You're not the first fellow who's been in the corridor after 'lights out' by long chalks." "It was not that--it was not being in the corridor, and Parfitt knowing it--troubles me. But there's something else--much worse--a beastly insinuation. Phew!" The air seemed to have suddenly grown oppressive to Paul. He was no longer the calm, cool, self-reliant fellow who had stood between Stanley and Newall. "Beastly insinuation! What?" "You do not know what has happened. While I was with you in Dormitory X some one entered the big hall, broke open Weevil's desk, took out the Black Book, and tore from it the last five pages. That wasn't all. The culprit, whoever he was, took away some rough notes and plans Weevil had made on the subject of the prize essay, 'The Invasion of Great Britain.' Well, do you see now what Parfitt means to insinuate? He means to insinuate that I am the culprit--that I was the one who broke open Mr. Weevil's desk, tore the leaves from the Black Book, and stole the master's notes." "No, no; it can't be!" exclaimed Stanley, aghast. "It can be, and is; I am sure of it. That is the reason why Parfitt called me aside in such a mysterious manner." "The mean cad! But supposing he does wish to insinuate such a dastardly thing, you've an easy answer. Are you forgetting what you said just now--you were with me last night in Dormitory X?" "I'm not forgetting, Stan. It's you. Supposing I confessed what actually happened--that I was with you, and did not go near the master's desk last night; and supposing you said exactly the same thing--what then? You forget what happened. Mr. Weevil looked in the dormitory, you remember; looked round the dormitory, you remember, and spoke to you. He saw nothing of me, because I was hiding. If I said that I was in Dormitory X last night, therefore, the master himself would accuse me of falsehood; and he would have the same answer for you if you backed me up." Stanley did not at once answer. He could now see clearly enough the false position in which his friend had been placed in coming to share with him in his punishment. But he could only see the chivalry of it. He did not see that the step, chivalrous though it might be, had been a wrong step, and was bringing in its train the consequences of wrong-doing. "Mr. Weevil questioned the school this morning before you returned," Paul went on. "'Had any one left his dormitory during the night?' he asked. Perhaps I ought to have spoken then; but I let the chance go." "And Parfitt did not speak?" "No; but I can see plainly enough now that it wasn't out of any kindness to me. He kept quiet so that he should hold the secret over me like a whip. He gave me the first taste of the thong just now, and--and--it cuts into a fellow." Stanley could see the pain in Paul's face, as though he could feel the thong descending upon his shoulders at that moment. He, too, could feel something of the same pain. His head fell to his breast. He blamed himself for having been the cause of all this misery. But suddenly he looked up again, and his face brightened. "The game's ours!" he cried. "What do you mean?" "You twitted me just now about forgetting things, but we've both forgotten something--Weevil and Zuker. You've forgotten what you saw in the master's room when you came to me last night." "Supposing I had; how does that help?" "Cannot you see?" went on Stanley, quite excited. "Let's put our heads together for a moment and work it out. Supposing you go to Weevil and tell him straight out that you weren't in your dorm last night, but with me. He contradicts you point-blank. 'You could not have been with Moncrief, because I looked in at his dormitory at midnight and saw that no one else was there.' Then you bring forward your next piece, and cry, 'I think I can prove to you, sir, that I was in Dormitory X last night.' 'Your proof, quick!' 'My proof is that as I was passing by your room I happened to glance in at the window, and saw you with another gentleman--ahem!--looking over some papers.' Check! You have the master on toast, Paul. The case for the defence will be clear. Do you follow me?" Paul did not answer. He saw that this was one solution of the problem; but he was not certain that it was the best. "Well, what are you thinking about, old chap? Your face is as long as a fiddle." "Your suggestion is a good one, Stan," answered Paul slowly, as though he were still following his thoughts; "but I don't think that I'll act upon it--just yet." "Why not?" "Let's work my reasons out as you worked yours--shall we? Reason number one: We have cause to be suspicious of Mr. Weevil, the master in charge of this school during the absence of the Head. Heaven grant that our suspicions may be wrong, but we have reason to suppose that he is in league with a traitor. Am I clear, Stan?" "Quite." "Reason number two: If I told Mr. Weevil what I saw through his window on my way to you I might clear myself, but it would at once put him on his guard, and we should never have another chance of proving whether our suspicions are true or false. Is that clear, too?" "Yes, yes." "Well, thirdly and lastly: Don't you think it will be better to keep what we know up our sleeves for the present, in view of what may come after?" "You're right, Paul, as you always are!" exclaimed Stanley enthusiastically. "No, old fellow, there is only One who is always right," answered Paul earnestly. "We're always patting ourselves on the back and fancying ourselves mighty clever; but we're not. We're asses--always slipping and tumbling about, and when not doing that, running down the wrong road and butting our stupid heads against posts or walls. Asses, all of us--some big, some little." "Where do you come in, Paul?" laughed Stanley. "Amongst the mediums," Paul laughed back; but as he turned towards the school his face grew grave again. He had tried to reason things out, but the way before him did not seem so clear as he could have wished. There were pitfalls before him, into one of which he might stumble at any moment. And as he thought there came to him the lines of a hymn he had often heard his mother sing: "Lord, bring me to resign My doubting heart to Thee; And, whether cheerful or distressed, Thine, Thine alone to be. My only aim be this-- Thy purpose to fulfil, In Thee rejoice with all my strength, And do Thy Holy will." Entering the school, he sought out Hasluck, head of the Fifth. He was a quiet, studious boy, with glasses. He did not take a very prominent part in the sports, but none the less he was keen on the honour of his form, inside or outside the school. "I want you to call a meeting of the Form, Hasluck--to-night." "What about?" "A little matter between Newall, Moncrief, and me. It touches the honour of the Form." And Hasluck at once consented. CHAPTER XII THE FORUM "Meeting of the Fifth in the Forum." The whisper had travelled from form to form, and, as invariably happened, conjecture was busy as to what the meeting of the Fifth could be for. "It's a breach-of-promise case they've got on!" said Freddy Plunger confidentially to half a dozen members of the Third who had been discussing the event. "Breach of promise?" repeated Baldry. "None of your gammon, Freddy!" "Fact! Haven't you heard? One of the freshers has been making desperate love to the matron--giving her his portrait, with his love, and that sort of thing. You wouldn't wonder at it from an old stager like you, Baldry, or Sedgeley; but from a fresher--well, it's awful, isn't it? What's the school coming to--that's what I should like to know?" Harry Moncrief blushed to the roots of his hair as the boys standing round Plunger turned to him and tittered. "What are the damages?" "A broken topper, a pair of plaids, a white waistcoat, and spats over patents." More titters, and more glances in the direction of Harry. He knew well enough that this reference on Plunger's part was meant for him to the costume with which he had adorned himself on his coming to Garside. "Plunger's been crowing it over me ever since I came here. I shall have to take it out of him," he thought. The outburst of laughter that followed did not mend matters. So he hastened away, in no pleasant mood, without any regard to whither he was going. He came to a stop when he reached the cricketing-shed, in the playing-fields adjoining the school. It was this shed which was known as "The Forum." Here it was that the meeting of the Fifth was to be held. Harry stopped and regarded it with some interest. "Stan will be at the meeting, I suppose, and Paul Percival. Wouldn't I like to know what it's all about!" He had an uncomfortable feeling that things weren't going quite smoothly with his cousin and Paul Percival. Bit by bit the glamour with which he had viewed the school was wearing off. He no longer regarded it through rose-coloured glasses. Plunger had lorded it over him and made fun of him; his cousin and Paul, whom he had expected to find on the same footing as himself, might have been in a different world, so great was the difference between the upper and lower forms. The dormitory, to which he had looked forward with still greater pleasure, had proved a delusion and a snare. Often, in the bitterness of his experience in the dormitory, had he wished himself back in his warm and comfortable bed at home. He did not see--did not understand that the trials upon which he was entering were just those which were moulding him for the future. They were to test and try him, as they had tested and tried many others before him. Some of you who read this may be going through the same experience as Harry Moncrief. Remember, rough as the experience may be, it goes to make the man in you, and it depends upon you whether you come from these trials dross or pure gold. By the side of the shed where Harry was standing there was a window, thick with dust. Harry tried to look through the window, but, failing in this, his forefinger went idly to work on the dust. Bit by bit he traced out a face and head, almost without knowing it, for he had been thinking of the meeting that was to take place in the shed rather than of his sketch. "My, it isn't at all bad!" he cried, standing back a pace and admiring his handiwork when he had finished it. "If I'd really tried, I couldn't have done it so well. Perhaps the nose doesn't stick up enough, but it's got the right cut about it." Harry was about to rub out the sketch, when he paused, as though reluctant to rub out such a masterpiece. "'Pon my word, it's rather good! I wonder if anybody would know who it's meant for? I don't suppose anybody will. I've a jolly good mind to leave it!" He pronounced the last words with emphasis, turned on his heels, and walked away. Now it so happened that after Plunger and his companions had enjoyed their laugh at the expense of Harry, their attention went back again to the one absorbing topic of conversation--the meeting of the Fifth. "Shouldn't I like to be there!" said Plunger, his curiosity growing as the time for the meeting advanced. "I would like to know what's in the wind! Is it about the Black Book, I wonder?" "What's that to do with the Fifth any more than the rest of us?" remarked Sedgeley. "Oh, the Fifth always put a lot of side on, and like to cock it over us!" retorted Plunger. "You'll be just the same, Freddy, when you're sent up--if ever you are sent up," remarked Baldry. "Sour grapes!" "Shut up, Baldhead!" retorted Plunger hotly. "I never want to get amongst the Fifth bounders. It's that keeps me back. I could have got up in the Fourth at last exam., only I said to myself: 'No; it takes me one form nearer the Fifth bounders.'" He paused for a moment, then added: "All the same, I would like to know what they're going to gas about in the Forum. P'r'aps it's about us--p'r'aps they mean sitting on us a lot more than they do now." "P'r'aps!" repeated Sedgeley and Baldry reflectively. "I--I've a good mind to try. Why should the Fifth have it all to themselves? If--if I could only steal a march on them!" "If you only could, Freddy!" remarked Sedgeley encouragingly. For the next few minutes there was some whispering together, and the end of it was that Plunger and his companions strolled in the same direction as that Harry Moncrief had strolled in a quarter of an hour or so before. On arriving at the shed, they reconnoitred around it, uncertain as to whether or not anybody was within. Sedgeley happened by chance to look through--or tried to look through--the window on which Harry had left a specimen of his handiwork. His attention was at once arrested. He regarded the face seriously for a moment; then he broke into a shout of laughter. "What are you playing the silly goat for?" demanded Plunger wrathfully from somewhere in the rear of the shed. "Come here, Baldry, Bember, Viner!" exclaimed Sedgeley, vainly endeavouring to stifle his laughter. The three came hurrying up, followed by Plunger, in a violent state of agitation. "You'll spoil all, you braying ass, you laughing hyena, you giddy----" Then he paused, as Baldry, Bember, and Viner, after a glance at the pane, burst into laughter also. "What is it, you laughing lunatics--what----" Plunger said no more. His jaw dropped, as, following their gaze, he gazed in turn on the window-pane. "Jolly good likeness, isn't it, Baldry?" Sedgeley at length managed to remark. "My!" cried Baldry, with his hand on his side, as though he'd got a stitch in it. "Hold me up!" "I--I don't see what there's to laugh at," Plunger at length remarked, with a face as red as a turkey-cock's. "What, don't you see it, Freddy?" "See what?" "The likeness--oh, my side! Don't you know that nose--that hair. I should know 'em anywhere." Now, Plunger had a very characteristic nose--it was a combative nose, and a decided pug. So was the nose on the window-pane. Plunger's hair, too, was peculiar to Plunger. It was wiry, stubborn hair, with a tuft in front which resembled the comb of a turkey-cock. The same peculiarity was seen in the head on the window. And Plunger's eyebrows had a way of mounting to his head, as though they were anxious to get on terms of friendship with the tuft above. The same eccentricity was noticeable in the eyebrows on the window-pane. "No. I don't know 'em--not a bit. Who do you say they're meant for?" came in jerks from Plunger. "Who--who? Oh, dear, oh, dear! Why, they're meant for you, Freddy! It's awfully funny, isn't it? I didn't know that your face was so comical!" Plunger shrugged his shoulders, and affected indifference. He wasn't a bit like that caricature. It was only Sedgeley pretended to see the likeness, and made the other fellows see it with his eyes. At the same time he put out his hand to rub out the sketch. Sedgeley stopped him. "If it isn't meant for you, Freddy, we may as well see who it is meant for." "Just as you like," answered Plunger, in his most indifferent tone. Having assured themselves that there was no one inside, three of the conspirators--Sedgeley, Baldry, and Plunger--entered the shed. A quarter of an hour elapsed, then the door opened; but, instead of the three figures that entered, only two came out--Sedgeley and Baldry. All was silent within. Plunger had disappeared as completely as though he had dropped through the earth. "All serene?" queried Bember, as the two made their appearance. "All serene!" came the answer. * * * * * At seven o'clock the Fifth Form began to put in an appearance at the shed. Arbery and Leveson were two of the first. They lit a candle, and stuck it in a tin candle-stick. Then they rolled out one of the boxes that were piled up at the back, placed it lengthwise, so as to form a rostrum, and covered it with a baize cloth. On the top of this they placed a wooden mallet, used for knocking in the stumps in the cricketing season. "Sounds all right," said Leveson, giving the mallet a flourish over his head, and bringing it down sharply on top of the box. "Order--order for the chair!" Down it came a second time. "Friends, Romans, and Countrymen----" "Drop the cackle, Levy," shouted Arbery, "and give me a hand." He was pulling out some of the boxes, and Leveson lent him a hand to arrange them as seats. It so happened that in one of the most dilapidated of these boxes, which had rested for weeks in the darkest corner of the shed, Frederick Plunger, Esq. was reposing. It had been selected as the most suitable hiding-place by the conspirators. It was large and commodious, and there were so many cracks and crannies in the worm-eaten, dilapidated lid that there was ample breathing space within. In this safe hiding-place Plunger had flattered himself that he would be able to know all that passed at the meeting of the Fifth. He had not calculated on the box being shifted from its dusty, cob-webbed corner. But more by chance than design Arbery laid profane hands on it, and dragging it out with the rest, turned it over and over, something after the style of a porter with the luggage at a railway terminus in the busy season. Bumpety--bumpety! It seemed to Plunger, so far as he had any sensation at all, that he was performing the part of a human catherine-wheel. "My!" he gasped. "What are the asses doing with the box? I shall be most frightfully sick if they don't stop it." Bumpety--bumpety--bumpety! "Oh, oh! What an idiot I was to get inside this coffin; it'll be the death of me!" Arbery and Leveson gave another jerk to the box even as Plunger was groaning within. "It--it--it's worse than being on the Great Wheel, or on a pleasure boat when there's a sea on. Oh, my--oh dear! When are the silly fellows going to stop it?" he moaned. At last they did stop it, almost beneath the identical window on which Moncrief minor had traced Plunger's noble features. "That's about the ticket, isn't it, Arbery? My, it's hot work! Didn't think that old box was so heavy. You'd fancy it was stuffed with lead instead of broken bats and rubbish of that sort. Phew!" Leveson wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. "Yes; that's the thing. It'll give an extra seat or two, if they're wanted." "My word! They're going to sit on me," groaned Plunger. His groans were cut short by a loud outburst of laughter from Arbery. "What's the lunatic laughing at now?" thought Plunger. "Hold me up, Levy!" Arbery in rising from the box had caught sight of the caricature of Plunger on the window, and burst into a fit of laughter. "Do you see it--do you see who it's meant for?" Leveson, for answer, likewise broke into a peal of laughter. "The other lunatic's going it now," Plunger muttered to himself. "Seems to me I've hopped into an asylum instead of a box. There's a screw loose in one of 'em. My! Aren't they going it. Wish I could get a peep out of this beastly timber yard. I'd like to see what they're grinning at. Hark at 'em. They're off again." At last Leveson stopped. "See it," he cried. "Who could help it? Jolly good, isn't it? Like the young bounder to a T--the same nose, the same coarse wiry thatch, the same eyebrows running away from the forehead into the middle of next week." The perspiration began to ooze from Plunger. He had an uneasy feeling as to whom they were referring. "Young bounder!" he repeated. "Coarse, wiry thatch, eyebrows running away from the forehead. Leveson thinks that awfully smart, I s'pose? Still it--it--must be a bit like." Plunger had the additional pleasure of hearing more laughter at his expense as other scholars of the Fifth entered, and added their criticisms to Leveson's. Plunger's ears tingled as they had never tingled before, for never before had he heard himself so freely criticised. In addition to the not very flattering remarks "the bounders of the Fifth" had to pass on his features, Plunger had to listen to terse descriptions of himself as "that ass, Plunger," "a mixed pickle," "a queer egg," "conceited young biped," and so on. Plunger made remarks of his own as these pleasant criticisms reached his ears. They were scarcely less vigorous than those descriptive of himself, and were fairly divided between "those bounders of the Fifth" and "the fellow who had scratched things" on the window. But unfortunately Plunger's eloquence was wasted, as neither the "bounders of the Fifth" nor "the fellow who scratched things on the window" had the advantage of hearing it. His attention was soon turned from himself, however, to the proceedings that were taking place in the shed. There were about twenty in the Fifth. Nineteen put in an appearance. Hasluck, as head of the Form, took up his place at the rostrum, while most of the others sat on the boxes which had been arranged for their convenience by Arbery and Leveson, who were known as M.C.'s--masters of ceremonies--of the Form. "All here?" asked Hasluck, after bringing down his mallet on the box before him. "All--except Moncrief," answered Leveson. The absence of Moncrief had been noticed with some surprise by the Form, by none more than Newall. "Is he coming, does any one know? If so, we'll wait a little longer." "No; he isn't coming," answered Paul. "He wanted to; but I persuaded him to stop away." "You persuaded him to stop away," cried Newall. "Why, it's because of him we've come here." "Excuse me," answered Paul politely. "It's because of me. At any rate, it's for the Form to decide." "Percival called the Form together. It's for Percival to explain," said Hasluck. "I'll explain as well as I can," said Paul, taking a step forward, and glancing round at the faces bent eagerly forward to hear him. "There was a slight shindy, as you all know, on the first day of term, between Newall and Stanley Moncrief." "Shindy!" interrupted Newall with a scornful sniff. "Is that all you call it?" "Call it by what name you please; I don't mind," proceeded Paul calmly. "Newall baited Moncrief's cousin unmercifully, and Moncrief did what any other fellow in the Form worth his salt would have done--interfered. I tried to get between him and Newall to stop the quarrel. You know what happened--Newall was struck." "Yes, Newall was struck," repeated Newall grimly. "Yes; but after all Moncrief had a good deal the worst of it. He passed the night in Dormitory X--ten times worse punishment than anything Newall got; so he more than wiped out the blow he gave in anger to Newall." "Oh, stop this humbug," interrupted Newall angrily. "You can see what Percival's up to. He's trying to white-wash Moncrief, who's too big a funk to come here to defend himself." There were murmurs of assent from some of those present, who resented Moncrief's absence, and who were not favourably inclined to a tame ending of the quarrel. The more thoughtful section remained silent. "It would have been better, I think, for Moncrief to have been here," said Hasluck. And this view was received with applause. "If there's any blame for that," said Paul quickly, "blame me. As I've said, I persuaded him to stay away. With Moncrief here and Newall here, it would have been like two barrels of gunpowder. Just a spark, and--phwitt! bang--where should we all have been? There'd have been nothing left of us." This time Paul carried his audience with him. They were well aware that Moncrief was hasty in temper, and that Newall was no less fiery. So they smiled at Paul's description of what might probably have happened if the two had been present. "Besides, as I've already pointed out to Newall," continued Paul, "if there's a quarrel at all, it lies between me and him." "Stuff--gammon--more humbug!" interrupted Newall angrily. "That's what you think," said Paul, confronting him steadily for a moment. "After all, you only count as one. That's why I've called the Form, who count a good deal more, so that they could give their opinion. Whatever their opinion is, I'll stand to it." "You will!" cried Newall. "That's all I want. I know well enough they won't let Moncrief wriggle out of it." "How do you make out that the quarrel has shifted from Moncrief to you, Percival?" demanded Hasluck. "I can't quite see it." More murmurs of assent. "I think you will when I've finished," said Paul confidently. "Newall doesn't see it, naturally, but I think you will. This is how things stand. Newall made me believe that he was sorry for the quarrel that had taken place between him and Moncrief. On that I tried to do the right thing. I got Moncrief to go up to him and offer him his hand. I was never more disgusted in my life. Newall pretended not to see it, and said insulting things, which I need not repeat. What I say is, that when he refused to take Moncrief's hand, he insulted me more than he insulted Moncrief; for it was I who brought Moncrief to him, and it was through me Moncrief offered him his hand. That is the first point I wish the Form to decide." Paul spoke so earnestly that he carried the Form with him. It appealed to their sense of chivalry. Percival had tried to make peace between Newall and Moncrief. Failing that, he had turned the quarrel from his friend's shoulders to his own. First one, then the other, supported Paul, and though there was a small minority against him, there was no question as to the majority. "We think Percival right," said Hasluck--an announcement which was received with cheers. "That only means that the quarrel is between me and Percival," said Newall grimly. "I've no objection. I'm not going to kick against the decision of the Form." Then, turning to Paul: "You've got to pay me back the blow I had from Moncrief. P'raps the Form 'll decide when it's to be." "You mean fighting?" "What else should I mean?" "I don't. We don't want to waste our energies that way when there's a much better way and better work to do." "Trying to crawl out of it again," came in a sneering aside from Parfitt. "Was there ever such a wriggler?" "Let's hear the better way," said Hasluck; and there were many others in the Form, in spite of the sneering remark of Parfitt, who were equally anxious to hear what "the better way" could be. "There's a shadow resting upon the school--resting upon every one of us," said Paul solemnly. "What shadow are you talking about?" asked Hasluck. "The leaves from the Black Book--the stolen papers from Mr. Weevil's desk," said Paul. "Until the thief is found out, suspicion rests upon every boy in the Form--upon every boy in the school. What I suggest is, that we leave off fighting till we've found out who the thief is. I don't want to preach, but I think that will be a great deal more to our honour and the honour of our school." Paul paused. "If Parfitt has anything to accuse me of, now will be his time," he thought. He had not to wait long. Parfitt did speak, but scarcely in the way he had anticipated. "Honour of the school!" he cried. "Anybody would think that Percival's the only one who cares for it. Let him take care of his own honour first, and the honour of the school will take care of itself." Parfitt's pointed remark was loudly applauded. Paul saw that he was likely to be defeated unless he could make a stronger appeal to the sympathies of the Form. "I don't know that my honour's questioned," he answered promptly. "Who questions it?" "I do," retorted Parfitt. "And I," added Newall. Before Paul could answer, there was a knock on the door of the shed. It so startled Devey--a heavy, thick-set boy--that he over-balanced himself, and came with a crash on the box in which Plunger was hidden. Plunger had been so interested in the proceedings of the Fifth that he had lifted the lid in the slightest possible degree so that he might the better hear what was going on. When Devey came crashing on the box, Plunger thought for the moment that his head had gone from his shoulders. And then as Devey, not quite recovered from his fall, continued to sit upon the lid, he thought he would be suffocated. Meanwhile Leveson went to the door, and demanded: "Who's there?" "A Beetle," came the answer. "A Beetle! What does he want?" "He's got a challenge for the Fifth." "A challenge for the Fifth! Oh, very kind of him!" Then, turning to Hasluck, "Shall I let him in?" "Rather. Let's hear what the sport is." Thereupon Leveson opened the door. Three boys were standing without--two of them belonging to the school, and the third, who stood between them, one of the much-despised Beetles--in other words, a pupil of the rival school at St. Bede's. CHAPTER XIII A CHALLENGE FROM ST. BEDE'S The two boys who entered with the "Beetle" were Baldry and Sedgefield, the companions of Plunger. The Beetle was a sturdy, but rather heavy-featured, boy of fourteen. He wore the St. Bede's cap--dark cloth with a white shield in front, on which were worked in old English letters, "St. B.," while beneath these were three Roman capitals--"S. S. V.," the initials of the school motto, "Suis stet viribus"--"He stands on his merit." "Why, it's Mellor," came the cry, so soon as the face of the boy from St. Bede's could be clearly seen. Yes, it was Mellor, till recently a pupil at Garside, and formerly an occupant of the dormitory in which Harry Moncrief, Baldry and the others slept. He had left Garside last term, and, much to the disgust of his former associates, had entered as a pupil of St. Bede's. The fact was that it was not so much Mellor's work as his father's. Mellor was good at sport, but not quite as keen on learning, so that he had remained for two years in the same form along with boys who were much younger than himself. Mellor, of course, put it down to the school, and not to any lack of diligence on his part. His father fell in with the view of his son, believing him to be a "clever boy--unmistakably clever"--if the cleverness were only brought out. In the hope that this cleverness would be brought out, he had been taken from Garside and turned over to St. Bede's. Now the conversion of a "Gargoyle" into a "Beetle" was not an easy process. He had to fit himself into new surroundings, new conditions, new methods, with new companions. And while these new companions had given him a cool reception, his old companions, thinking him fair game for ridicule and sport now that he had "gone over to the enemy," had determined on giving him a warm reception at the first opportunity. It so happened that on the third day of Mellor's entrance at St. Bede's he chanced to meet Parfitt and a couple of companions of his in the Fifth. They had promptly seized on Mellor, and after congratulating him with mock gravity on rising to the "dignity of a Beetle," had ended by making him crawl on all fours "as a Beetle ought," and, using his back as a desk, had finally written this note on a slip of paper--"Beetle, otherwise cockroach--nocturnal insect, concealing itself in holes during the day, and crawling off at the approach of light." This flattering description they had pinned to Mellor's back, with an intimation that he was to crawl back to his brother Beetles as quickly as possible or he would be "squashed before he could get to his hole again." Mellor, smarting under these indignities, had hastened back to St. Bede's and placed the note in the hands of one of the boys belonging to the corresponding form to that of his tormentors. The Fifth had duly considered it, and a day later had despatched an answer with Mellor. And this was the answer: "Gargoyle, otherwise spout--receiving things that come from gutters. Meant to frighten people by making ugly faces. Good for little else. If the Fifth Form has one Gargoyle of any pluck amongst them, he will find a Fifth Form Beetle ready to meet him at the sand-pit, Cranstead Common, to-morrow afternoon, three sharp." "It's a challenge," said Hasluck. "Read it out," came in a chorus. And Hasluck read it out. "Don't you think you've got a lot of cheek to bring a note like that, Mellor," remarked Arbery when Hasluck had finished. "Not half as much as Parfitt had in writing the one he sent by me," retorted Mellor indignantly. "What does it feel like, being a Beetle?" asked Leveson politely. "Kitchen stuff's fattening, isn't it?" "After going about on all fours, don't you find it a bit tricky to stand on your hind legs again?" remarked Arbery. "Want a balancing-pole, don't you?" Before Mellor could reply, a mysterious gurgling sound came from the direction in which Devey was standing. "Hallo, Devey, what's wrong?" demanded Hasluck, as every eye turned in his direction. "Wrong? Nothing wrong! What do you mean?" retorted Devey, quite blushing at thus suddenly becoming the object of general attention. "Thought you were trying to laugh. Never heard such a screech. Like a laughing hyena with the toothache. Don't do it again, there's a good chap. It'll get on our nerves." "I haven't done anything, I tell you," exclaimed the indignant Devey. "I didn't laugh." "It came from your corner. It must have been some of those youngsters of the Third eavesdropping outside. Chase 'em away a bit, Arbery." Arbery, accompanied by Leveson, darted out with the object of giving the "youngsters of the Third" a bad time, but after searching around the shed, could find no sign of their presence. "They must have scooted before we could get to them," reported Arbery on his return to the shed. "I can guess pretty well who it was--Plunger and his set." Again that sound from Devey's corner which Hasluck had described as "a laughing hyena with the toothache"; and again all eyes went to Devey. "Well, what the dickens are you staring at?" Devey indignantly demanded, when he thought that he had borne this scrutiny with enough patience. "Beetles are bad enough, Devey, without paroquets," remarked Hasluck reproachfully. "If you feel bad, you'd better go out. We'll excuse you." "It's not me, I tell you. I didn't laugh. It came from outside, or the roof, or--or somewhere," protested Devey. Arbery and Leveson darted out again, with the same result as before. But they saw shadows in the distance which they believed to be some of their tormentors, and it was decided that they should take up a position close to the door, and at once dart out if the sound were repeated. Devey was, of course, perfectly truthful when he had denied making the curious sound which had so startled his companions. Nor had it come from the "youngsters of the Third" outside. It came, as the reader has guessed, from the box in which Mr. Freddy Plunger was reposing. At first, when the heavy weight of Devey had rested on the box, he thought that he would have been suffocated. But when, in the excitement caused by the unexpected entrance of Mellor with his challenge from St. Bede's, Devey had risen with the other fellows, and remained standing, Plunger breathed more freely, and began to feel quite light-hearted again. He felt just as excited as any of those outside at what was happening and entered just as thoroughly into the scene, so that when Leveson and Arbery began to question Mellor about the peculiarities of "a Beetle," he felt that he must laugh or choke. The result was the curious noise which had been put down first to Devey, then to the boys outside. No one guessed for a moment that it came from the box before which Devey was standing. When the stir caused by this incident had subsided, attention was once more turned to Mellor. "Well, Mellor, you haven't answered our questions yet," said Parfitt, taking up the fire. "What does it feel like to be a Beetle?" Mellor flamed up the instant Parfitt spoke. It was Parfitt who had set upon him and badgered him, and written the note which had stirred up so much feeling at St. Bede's against Garside. "You're a cad and a coward!" he cried hotly. "I don't want to answer you or speak to you either." Parfitt, stung by the boy's words, moved towards him to clutch him by the ear. But Paul was quicker, and stood between them. "Hands off, Parfitt! Mellor's here as a messenger from the Fifth of St. Bede's to us, the Fifth of Garside. Don't drag us in the mud! Let's be fair! They've sent us a challenge. Let's be polite enough to answer it." "Interfering again," sneered Parfitt. "Always poking your nose where it isn't wanted!" "Don't get waxy, Parfitt," remonstrated Hasluck. "Percival's quite right. It isn't nice perhaps to know that one of our fellows has gone over to the Beetles, but there it is. It can't be helped. What's done can't very well be undone. Let's be fair, and let's be polite. There, I'm with Percival, and so, I think, are the rest of you." ("Hear, hear, hear," from the rest, with the exception of Parfitt, who felt rather small.) "Shall we send an answer?" "Yes, yes." "I knew well enough you'd say 'Yes.' Well, the next point is, what's the answer to be?" "I think there can be only one answer," exclaimed Newall, speaking for the first time. "The Fifth Form Gargoyle is quite ready to meet the Fifth Form Beetle at the sand-pit, Cranstead Common, to-morrow afternoon, three sharp." At once a cheer broke out in favour of Newall's suggestion. "As Parfitt wrote the elegant little note which has brought this storm upon us, he'd better write the answer," said Hasluck. This suggestion also met with general approval. Parfitt hesitated, but at length wrote the note as dictated by Newall. Hasluck read it out. "Will it do?" he questioned when he had finished. "Agreed, agreed!" was the answering shout. Paul alone remained silent. His face was unusually grave. He had come there on a peaceful mission, and the peaceful mission had ended in a declaration of war. "There you are, Mellor; take that and give it to your brother Beetles, with the compliments and best wishes of the Fifth," he said, as he folded up the note and handed it to Mellor. "Now cut!" "Cut isn't the word," said Arbery, as he opened the door. "Crawl!" Mellor darted out of the shed with the note, without waiting for any further references to the new title conferred upon him. "Won't you eat your words in the sand-pit to-morrow!" he cried as a parting shot. "The cheeky beggar got the last word in anyhow," quoth Arbery as he closed the door. Dead silence followed for a minute or two, then it was broken by Hasluck. "You called us here, Percival," he said, turning to Paul, "to talk over the triangular squabble between you and Moncrief and Newall. You don't mind us putting that off for a bit? This is the thing we've got to settle, this cheeky challenge from the Beetles." Paul, seeing there was no help for it, nodded assent. "And you, Newall?" Newall nodded in turn. "Good! Well, then, having decided to take up the challenge from St. Bede's, the next thing to settle is, who's to be our champion at the sand-pit to-morrow?" No one seemed in a great hurry to answer that question, but at length Newall, a curious smile hovering about his lips, said: "We're all of us anxious for the job, that's the reason we're so silent. But I'd like to propose one as our champion who'd do us credit--Percival." Had a thunderbolt fallen in the shed, the boys of the Fifth could not have been more startled than when they heard Paul's name. Was Newall in earnest, or was he poking fun? It was hard to tell, for the curious smile that had hovered about his lips was there no longer. It had quite vanished, and his face was the gravest amongst them. "Percival!" he repeated with emphasis. "He's done me a lot of honour. He's done me the honour of calling you fellows together to settle a quarrel between Moncrief and me. He's done me honour in the nice things he has said of me. Well, I'd like to do him a little in turn. There can't be a greater honour than representing the Fifth as champion of the Form. It's one that I'd jump at myself, but after what has taken place, after all that Percival has said about the honour of the Form, I can only take a back seat. He comes first. So I again say, let Percival be our champion." Notwithstanding that Paul had rarely been seen in a school fight, it was well known amongst his companions that he was a fine athlete and perfectly able to take care of himself, so with ready shouts they hailed the suggestion. "Percival, Percival, Percival!" resounded on all sides. CHAPTER XIV THE CHAMPION OF HIS FORM Paul, as may be imagined, was as much startled by Newall's proposal that he should be the champion of the Form as at the readiness with which it was taken up by his class-mates. "Well, Percival"--the voice of Hasluck broke the silence which had followed as they waited eagerly Paul's answer--"you've heard what Newall has said, and what the Form thinks of it. What's your answer?" A keen struggle went on in Paul's mind as the question came to him. He had come there to settle a dispute--to ward off a meeting between Moncrief and Newall. And now, by an adroit move on the latter's part, he had been forced to accept or decline a challenge from outside. If he refused, he would have to eat his own words about the honour of the school; he would be regarded as a contemptible coward; and the quarrel between Newall and Moncrief would still remain unsettled. If he accepted, he would be held in honour by his Form, and, in fighting its battle, he might be able to settle the quarrel between Moncrief and Newall. So, coming to a swift decision, he turned to the latter: "If I fight for the Form, will that settle the quarrel between you and Moncrief? Will you shake hands with him?" "Yes," came the prompt answer. "Very well; then I'll do my best to keep up the honour of the Form at the sand-pit to-morrow." "Bravo--bravo; hip, hip, hurrah!" cried Devey, jumping on the box in which Plunger was concealed, and waving his cap wildly. The cheers were taken up by most of the Form, but Parfitt, who took no part in the cheering, remarked, loud enough for all to hear: "Seems to me we'd better save our shouting till to-morrow afternoon." "For once I agree with Parfitt," answered Paul calmly. "Keep your shouting till to-morrow afternoon." "And even then it may all be on the other side," added Parfitt, with a sneer. "Trust Parfitt for throwing cold water on anything," said Devey, jumping down from the box. "He must have been born in a refrigerator." He gave the box an indignant kick. Plunger shivered. He was glad that Devey's foot came on the box instead of on him. The meeting was over, and the boys went in twos and threes from the shed discussing the forthcoming battle in the sand-pit. Plunger, greatly excited at all he had heard, was waiting eagerly the moment he could emerge from his hiding-place, when he heard Arbery shout: "Don't all run off without lending a hand. We shall have to get the boxes back, and the shed ship-shape. Devey and I can't do all the work." Plunger groaned. He knew what Arbery's appeal meant. One by one the boxes were shifted back to their places; then it came to the turn of the box in which Plunger was concealed, and once again he was bumped about from side to side till he got painfully mixed ideas as to where he began and where he ended--as to which was his head and which were his feet, and whether he would ever be able to stand straight again. At last the box was rolled back to the corner in which it had previously reposed, and Arbery and his assistants followed in the footsteps of their companions. When Plunger could gather together his scattered senses, he raised the lid of the box and scrambled out. "My!" he groaned, as he leaned against the side of the shed and felt his limbs. "Seems to me I'm all bruises. It's a wonder I've come out alive. I'd just like to put the fellow who's been putting my frontispiece on that pane inside the box I've come from for half an hour!" Gradually, however, the worried look on Plunger's face gave place to one of satisfaction as he remembered that he was the only one outside the Fifth who knew what had taken place at the meeting, and that he alone knew what was to take place on the morrow. He had no chance of relating to his companions the secret which was burning within him till he reached the dormitory that night. "Well," asked Baldry breathlessly, as soon as lights were out, "how did you get on, Freddy? What happened?" "You'd never guess. There's to be a fight to-morrow between one of the Fifth fellows and a Beetle." Every ear in the dormitory pricked up at this unexpected piece of information. "Who's our fellow?" demanded Sedgefield, breaking the silence which followed this announcement. "Percival." Baldry gave a prolonged whistle of surprise. "How's that? Why, Percival has always set his back against fighting, and all the fellows are saying that it was to keep Moncrief major from fighting Newall that he called a meeting of his form." "I dare say. He seemed to be steering that way till that little turncoat, Mellor, came on the scene with a challenge from the Beetles." "A challenge from the Beetles!" cried Baldry. "Tell us all about it." Plunger told them all about it. And never had any one more attentive listeners than Plunger had as he related to them all that had happened at the meeting in the shed. Not the least interested were Harry Moncrief and Hibbert. "Paul going to fight," Harry repeated to himself. "I do so hope he'll win!" Then, remembering the words in which his father had once spoken of Paul, he added: "Win or lose, I'm certain Paul will bear himself bravely." Hibbert closed his eyes in the darkness, and prayed: "Watch over Percival--keep him from harm. For Christ's sake. Amen." The boy had not forgotten Paul's kindness to him. It stood out as the one bright spot in his memory since he had come to Garside. For once he was allowed to sleep without pillows being thrown at him, the clothes pulled from him by means of a carefully-arranged cord, and playful tricks of that sort, of which both he and Harry had been the victims as the latest recruits to the dormitory. The great event of the morrow caused everything else to be forgotten. Paul, meantime, had not had a very pleasant time of it. It had been with the greatest difficulty he had induced Stanley to stay away from the meeting of his form. After the meeting, one or two pointed allusions were made to his absence by his class-mates, and to make these cut the deeper, he overheard Parfitt say to Devey: "You were quite right in shouting for Percival. He came out better than I thought. It's the other fellow who's so contemptible--getting his friend to call a meeting to white-wash him, and do all the dirty work. He'd be hounded out of any decent school." These remarks were made loud enough for Stanley to hear, and for his special benefit. Though he knew well enough that he was "the other fellow" referred to, he could not speak. Nevertheless, he felt angry with himself for allowing Paul to persuade him to stay away from the meeting. Then, from feeling angry with himself, he felt angry with Paul, and the reception he gave him on his return was not a very cordial one. "What have you been saying about me?" he demanded. "Nothing that could harm you," smiled Paul. "It's all right between you and Newall. The quarrel's settled." "But how is it settled? You haven't made me swallow dirt, have you?" "I think not," answered Paul, wounded at the suggestion. "You ought to know me better than that." For the first time there was a rift between the two friends. Paul did not tell Stanley what had happened at the meeting, but left him to find out. He heard all about it from Waterman--the easy-going, indolent Waterman. "Going to fight a Beetle, is he?" said Stanley, when Waterman had ended. "It was good of him to take my part, but I wish he hadn't let me down so." But when he met Paul in the dormitory that night, he only remembered that he was his friend, and that he was going to fight for the honour of the Form on the morrow. "I'm sorry I spoke so hastily, Paul," he whispered. "Forgive me." The next afternoon was a holiday for both Garside and St. Bede's. It was for this reason that the challenge had been fixed for that date. Cranstead Common was midway between the two schools, and the sand-pit was in an open part of the common, where the ground for some little distance round was destitute of grass or furze. The Fifth Form had kept to themselves the fact that an encounter was to take place in the sand-pit, for fear it might reach the ear of some of the masters, and be stopped. They were not aware that Plunger knew all that had transpired at the meeting. Plunger was as loyal to his Form as the Fifth were to theirs, and the secret of what was to happen at the sand-pit was communicated in confidence to them on the distinct understanding that it wasn't to travel farther. When, therefore, the afternoon came, and the boys of the Fifth set out in little parties of three or four to make for the sand-pit, they could not understand how it was that little parties of the Third were found to be travelling in the same direction. Still more curious were the various articles borne by these little bands of stragglers. One group bore a football; another shouldered a butterfly net, without regard to the fact that butterflies had not been seen for many weeks; a third group fishing-rods, and so on. Freddy Plunger was amongst the anglers. He was talking loudly about his achievements at different times with rod and line, when Devey, Arbery, and Leveson came up with him. "What are you fishing for, Plunger?" asked Devey, catching him gently by the ear. "Whales?" "No--eels!" retorted Plunger snappily, having good cause to remember Devey the night before. "Slippery things, eels, aren't they?" "Not half so slippery as you are, Mr. Plunger. But don't be cheeky." "Never am, Mr. Devey. That's my fault--always too polite. Born like it, so can't help myself. Where are you going to, Mr. Devey?" "That's my business, Mr. Plunger. Little boys shouldn't ask questions--they should be seen and not heard. If you have a good catch, ask us to supper, won't you? Ta-ta, Plunger!" And Devey and his companions went on, leaving Plunger and his companions chuckling in their sleeves. "Mr. Devey thinks himself mighty clever now, but he looked an awful ass in the shed last night when all the fellows turned on him for laughing like a paroquet," grinned Plunger. "I nearly killed myself trying to keep my feelings under. It was enough to make a cat scream. Oh, dear; oh, my!" And Plunger went off at the recollection, till he received a dig in the ribs from Baldry which made him gasp. "Shut up, Freddy; here comes the noble champion of the Fifth! He doesn't look over-pleased with himself." As he spoke, Paul and Stanley passed them. Baldry was not far wrong. Paul was far from pleased with himself. He was going to fight in cold blood a boy with whom he personally had no quarrel, and he had not the slightest notion who his opponent was. He might be a noble-hearted fellow, as much averse to quarrelling and fighting as he was, but compelled to fight--as he had been--for "the honour of the Form." He--Paul--had faced danger, and had not shrunk from it; but somehow, he shrunk from the encounter before him. "Look! There's quite a crowd at the sand-pit already," exclaimed Stanley, who was a great deal more excited at the coming encounter than Paul was. By this time they had come within sight of the sand-pit. Paul, looking up, saw that on one side had gathered most of the boys of the Fifth, while on the other side were the boys from St. Bede's. CHAPTER XV WHAT HAPPENED AT THE SAND-PIT Though the boys of St. Bede's and those of Garside regarded themselves as adversaries, to their credit be it said no outbreak of temper had resulted from their meeting at the sand-pit. There had been some amount of good-humoured chaff bandied to and fro across the pit, but nothing more. All were eager for the coming struggle. A cheer went up from the Garsides directly they caught sight of Paul. The Bedes eyed him critically. "Looks grim enough--as though he meant business," said one, as Paul advanced to the pit. The cheer of his comrades put fresh life into Paul. His blood, which had seemed stagnant, began to race through his veins. "For the honour of the Form," he said to himself, between his clenched teeth, "I must--I will win!" As though his comrades wished to give him all the encouragement in their power, another cheer went up as he entered the pit, and took up his position on the floor of hard-pressed sand below. "Where's the other fellow?" he asked. "Doesn't seem to have turned up yet," said Arbery; "but I don't think it's quite time. How goes it, Levy?" Leveson had a stop-watch and was very proud of it. He usually acted as timekeeper at the school sports, when the stop-watch was very much to the fore. He prided himself on one thing--always knowing the right time. His was the only watch that kept the right time at Garside--so, at least, Leveson said. To ask Leveson the "correct time" was one of the greatest compliments you could pay him. It was a tacit acknowledgment that the time kept by Leveson's stop-watch was superior to any other. "Three minutes eighteen seconds to three," answered Leveson, after examining the watch. "Oh, we'll make you a present of the seconds," said Arbery. Then he shouted across to the Bedes: "I say, Beetles, is that champion of yours coming on an ambulance?" "No; that's coming after," cried a bright-eyed lad named Sterry, from the other side, "to take your champion home!" A loud laugh from the Bedes greeted this retort. "He scored over you there, Arbery," said indolent Waterman. Scarcely had the laughter died away than it was followed by a loud cheer. "Their man's coming at last. What's the time, Levy?" "One minute thirty secs. to the hour. He's cut it rather fine--must be a cool sort of bounder," answered Leveson. "Hallo, look there! Hang me if there isn't Master Plunger and a lot of the howlers from his form." Arbery looked in the direction indicated. Plunger and his companions were lying at full length on the banks of the pit, peering over its sides and taking the deepest possible interest in the proceedings below. "So it is. How did the little beggar get to know what was going on, I wonder?" "Said he was going eel-fishing. Thought it was a blind," said Devey. "Hallo, they're peeling!" Paul had taken off his coat, and rolled back his sleeves. The champion of the other Form could not at first be seen because of the throng which had gathered round him, but presently he came from the group that surrounded him with his coat off, and his arms bared, just as Paul stepped into the ring. Their eyes met. Paul staggered back, as though he had been struck. The youth who stood before him was Gilbert Wyndham, he who had helped him on the night he was fleeing from Zuker. Fight him? Impossible! Not though his life depended on it! The excited murmur of voices that followed the two into the ring ceased. A strange silence rested on the place, as the two boys confronted each other. Then as the two schools were waiting eagerly for the first blow to be struck, they saw Paul's hands fall helpless to his side; saw the colour go from his face; saw the white lips move. What did it mean? They stared in wonder, and the wonder grew as Paul turned away and took his coat from Moncrief. "I cannot fight," he murmured. With his coat on his arm he hastened from the pit. Then the silence was broken by the Bedes. They howled, and jeered and hooted. And above the hooting and the jeers there rose the cry: "The noble champion of the Gargoyles!" Heedless of the shouting and the jeers, Paul walked swiftly away, as one seized with sudden fear. His own Form still remained silent. They might have been struck dumb. It was all so strange--so unexpected. Then they in turn shouted and jeered after the retreating figure. Paul heard the shouts. Those from the Bedes made him shiver. These from his own Form cut into him like whips. "They do not understand! How--how can I tell them?" he murmured as he pressed on, anxious to get away from the place as quickly as possible. He did not pause till he came in sight of the old flag waving above the school. Had he disgraced that flag--the legacy of a brave soldier? Had he dishonoured it? God would be his judge. He passed three or four boys as he entered the grounds. They knew nothing of what had happened at the sand-pit. One boy spoke to him, but Paul took no heed of him. He had not heard him. He was as though deaf and blind to all around him. He did not pause till he reached one of the class-rooms; then his head fell on his arms. The shouts and jeers followed him, and broke harshly in upon the stillness of the room. With startling distinctness he could hear them, and the cry went ringing through his brain: "The noble champion of the Gargoyles!" Then resting there, with his head bowed on his arms, he searched his conscience, and asked himself the question--"Have I done right?" Had he acted as his father would have wished him to act had he been living? Had he done right in the sight of God? Yes, he felt confident he had done right in refusing to fight Wyndham, though he could not explain to his class-mates why he had so acted. That night ride was known only to Stanley and him. It was impossible for him to divulge the secret to his Form. He must suffer their taunts in silence, trusting that the time would soon come when he might speak. "There's one good thing, old Stan will understand me. I can make it clear enough to him. He ought to be here by this time. Why doesn't he come?" he asked himself. He tried to shake off the gloom that oppressed him, but could not. His head went to the desk again, and again he heard the yells and hooting of the boys at the pit; but the cries seemed fainter. "Why doesn't Stan come--why doesn't Stan come?" he kept asking himself. He rested thus for some time--how long he knew not--when he was roused by a timid hand resting on his arm, while a gentle voice whispered: "Percival." He looked up quickly. Hibbert was standing beside him, his face, usually so pale, was slightly flushed, as the brown eyes turned to Paul. "I haven't disturbed you, have I?" he asked. "What do you want with me, Hibbert?" Paul asked rather sharply; for he did not like the lad breaking in upon him so quietly. "You looked so wretched and miserable I could not help coming in. You're not angry with me, are you?" "Angry with you? No; why should I be?" answered Paul, forcing a smile to his face at the boy's eager question. "Oh, I'm so used to people being angry with me, except you and--and Mr. Weevil." "Mr. Weevil! Doesn't he ever get angry with you?" "No; he's very good to me." Paul was rather astonished at this piece of information, knowing that Weevil had a reputation for harshness. "Glad to hear it. He makes it up on the other fellows." Paul's mind flitted back to the night when Stanley was sent to Dormitory X. "But why aren't you outside, enjoying yourself with your class-mates?" "They never want me to play with them. I'm no good at their games," answered the boy sadly; "but I've been with some of them this afternoon. I was at the--sand-pit." He volunteered the information with some hesitation. Paul flushed. What had happened would soon be known, then, to every boy in the school. "We found out what was going to happen in our Form; and so I went with the rest to see you--to see you----" Again the boy hesitated. "To see me turn tail and run. Out with it. Don't be afraid of hurting my feelings," cried Paul bitterly. "The other fellows won't. You'll hear what they'll be calling me presently--quite a choice collection of names--cur, pariah, coward, and the rest of it." "No, not coward. I know you couldn't be," said the boy confidently. "Any one can see that by looking in your face. I know you had some reason for going away. It's that made you so wretched. I knew you would be, and so--and so after waiting a little time to see what would happen, I followed after you." Paul was touched at Hibbert's devotion. In that one moment the boy had repaid a hundredfold the little act of kindness he had shown him when he first entered the school. He had come to Paul in his loneliness, and had brought a ray of sunshine into the gloom that had suddenly sprung up around him. "Do you know, Hibbert, you're a very good little chap to speak of me as you do, and to think of me as you do? I'm a long way off deserving it, I can tell you. You waited after I left the sand-pit, you say, to see what would happen? What did happen? They kept up the groans for me till they were tired, I suppose?" "Don't speak of it," said the boy, shivering. "You needn't be afraid of giving me pain, I tell you. I'm getting pretty tough. After they'd done hooting me----" "While they were still hooting you, Moncrief threw off his jacket, and leapt into your place." "What!" cried Paul, starting to his feet, and staring at the boy. "Leapt into my place?" "Yes, stood up to the Beetle--the fellow they call Wyndham; then the hooting stopped, and our fellows cheered madly, specially when Newall came forward and backed up Moncrief major." "Newall! backed up Moncrief!" repeated Paul, bewildered. "Do you mean to say Moncrief fought with Wyndham?" "Yes, wildly--madly." Paul closed his eyes, shuddering. He could see the two confronting each other, and staggering about in the sand-pit. For some moments he could not speak, and when his hands came from his face, it was as white as the boy's before him. "And who--who came off best, Hibbert?" "I don't know. I--I could not stop. To see them fighting so made me--made me feel bad all over. I'm not like other boys. And--and all the time I was thinking of you; so I hastened here, and--and found you." "They were still fighting as you left?" "Yes, yes; but where are you going?" Paul had seized his cap and turned to the door. "To see what has happened." "It will be all over by now; don't go," pleaded the boy. But Paul was deaf to Hibbert's pleading. "What have I done--what have I done?" he asked himself as he rushed into the grounds. "Fool--fool, not to have guessed what would happen!" Somehow we do rarely guess what will happen. Things which seem so clear to us after they have happened are quite hidden from our sight beforehand. The best of us grope about in the dark, and stumble blindly along as Paul Percival had done. Paul rushed on--back--back to the sand-pit. Suddenly he came to a dead stop. The hum of many voices reached his ears. A crowd of boys were coming towards him. CHAPTER XVI "HE MIGHT HAVE BEEN A LEPER" In the midst of the boys coming along the road was Stanley. He was not so easy to recognize, for his face was bruised and swollen, and a thin streak of scarlet came from a cut near the right eye. He seemed to stagger along the road rather than walk, and, what was most strange, Newall had one arm through his, as though to support him. Paul's heart fell. It was true enough what Hibbert had said. A fight had taken place, and, judging by appearances, Stanley had had the worst of it. For the moment Paul could not move; then, rousing himself, with an effort he ran towards Stanley. Instantly he was greeted with a storm of hisses. Stanley turned from him with a look on his bruised and swollen face Paul had never seen there before. It was a look of repugnance, as though the affection between them had suddenly turned to loathing. Then the crowd of boys parted, and drawing away from Paul, left him standing there alone--he might have been a leper. He began to feel indignant against Stanley. He at least ought to have known why he had refused to fight Wyndham; and then, as he recalled Stanley's bruised face, his indignation vanished. The old tenderness and affection for his friend came back in a wave. "Why did I leave you, Stan--why did I leave you?" He reproached himself, and still more bitterly Wyndham. It was Wyndham who had done this--who had bruised and battered Stanley, and raised this barrier between them. "You'll have to reckon with me some day, Master Wyndham," he said to himself. He looked in the direction of Garside. The boys had disappeared from sight. How could he get an explanation of what had happened? He would go and demand one; but somehow as he turned to the school his feet seemed as heavy as lead. For the first time he felt as though he had no right there. What was the use of going back when no one wanted him? He had made a horrible mess of everything. Paul felt utterly miserable, as though he would like to flee from everything and every one. Then the pale face of little Hibbert rose before him, and he heard him speaking again as he had spoken to him in the class-room: "Coward! I know you couldn't be. Any one can see that by looking in your face." There was one at the school, at any rate, who had not lost faith in him. And Paul was strengthened by the memory. Thus thinking, he turned away from the school again, scarcely heeding the direction in which he went. Happening to look up, he saw Waterman coming along the road towards him. He was strolling along with both hands thrust in his pockets in his usual leisurely manner. He was one of that class of boys who never seem to have anything to do, and plenty of time to do it in. "I wonder if he will shun me like the rest?" thought Paul. And then he added with a smile: "At any rate he won't run away from me. It'll be too much trouble." As Paul anticipated, Waterman made no attempt to avoid him, but he would have passed on without speaking, had not Paul stood directly in his pathway. "You were at the sand-pit this afternoon, Waterman?" "Of course I was." "And saw what happened?" "Yes," was the curt answer, and Waterman endeavoured to pass on, but Paul still stood in his pathway. "You're not in a hurry, Watey." "Hurry!" repeated the boy indignantly, with raised eyebrows, as though that were one of the most offensive words Paul could use. "I never fag over things, you know." "Then you can spare me a minute or two. I'll turn back with you, if you like." Waterman neither assented nor dissented. So soon as Paul turned, he kept on his way, with both hands in his pockets, as though unconscious of Paul's presence. "I want to know what happened at the pit after I left." "Haven't you seen any of the other fellows? Why didn't you get them to explain? I'm never good at explanations." "I meant speaking to them, but they booed and hissed at me, like geese." "Really?" And Waterman's eyebrows went up, as though he marvelled at so much unnecessary exertion being expended on Paul. "I don't see the good of that, but it's the way some fellows have of showing their feeling. And come to think of it, I don't wonder. You cut up badly at the sand-pit. I really don't know whether I'm doing quite right in speaking to you--I really don't." "You can settle that point after. Tell me first what happened at the sand-pit, Watey," urged Paul. "Moncrief took your place when you turned tail----" "Yes, yes; I've heard that. After--after----" "Well, unfortunately for Garside, Moncrief got the worst of it. He made a very plucky stand, but he wasn't a match for the Beetle--what's the fellow's name?--Wyndham. Moncrief stood well up to him, but it was no good. He was knocked down once or twice, until Newall, who was backing him, you know, threw up the sponge. Moncrief would never have given in himself. I never saw a fellow look so wretched and miserable as he did when, after coming to, they told him it was all over and he had lost. But the fellows cheered him for his pluck, and some of the Beetles joined in after they had shouted themselves hoarse over their own champion, especially that little turncoat, Mellor. He shouted himself black in the face." "Wretched and miserable, you say?" repeated Paul. Brief as Waterman's description was, he could picture all that had happened--he could see Stanley reeling under Wyndham's blows, and the climax of it all when he had swallowed the last bitter drop--the humiliation of defeat. "Yes, wretched and miserable, and I don't wonder at it." They walked on in silence for some moments; then Waterman suddenly spoke again: "Look here, Percival, it's an awful fag trying to understand any one, but I once thought I understood you. I never dreamt you'd turn tail like you did. I'll never try to understand any one again. I'll give it up." "Bear with me a little longer. I had my reasons for what I did." "I suppose you had. You can't be quite an idiot. But reasons can be explained. Why didn't you explain yours?" "Look here," said Paul; "you've acted decently towards me, Waterman, and I'll explain to you as far as I'm able. Supposing a Beetle had done you, a few weeks back, a splendid turn--got you out of a tight corner in which you might have lost your life? Are you following me?" "Beetle--tight corner. Yes, I follow; but don't make it too hazy. I don't want to suffer from brain-fag. You're out of a tight corner, and your life's saved by--a Beetle. Trot along." "Well, supposing on your return to school after that, a breeze springs up between the Beetles and the Fifth; and supposing the Fifth insist on you being its champion?" "Oh, that's absurd. They'd never insist on my being its champion. I can't follow you there, Percival." "I know it's hard," smiled Paul; "but, we're only supposing, you know." "Ah, yes, I'd forgotten; but I can't see the use of supposing absurdities. Go on your own giddy way. Supposing----" "The Fifth insist on you being its champion; and then supposing, when you get to the sand-pit to do battle for your form, you find that the champion of the Beetles--the one you're to do battle with--is the fellow who saved your life. Well, supposing all this, could you have fought him?" "You don't mean to say that this is what happened to you?" demanded Waterman, rousing himself in a surprising way. "You haven't answered me." "Well, if I could fancy myself as a champion of any kind, I don't think I could go for one who'd saved my life--bother it, no! But is this really what happened to you, Percival?" "Yes, it really happened to me." "Then why didn't you explain?" "Because I couldn't. My tongue's tied for the present. I'm only explaining to you in confidence, and I want you to promise me that you won't let it go any further." "I hate mysteries, they're so worrying. Why should there be any mystery?" "Why? I can't explain, except--except that there's something more important than the honour of the Fifth; than the honour of the school even. That's the reason why I'm obliged to keep silent." "Oh, I say, this is getting more and more worrying. But if you don't want me to speak, of course, I'll keep quiet!" Paul knew that he could trust Waterman. In spite of his slackness--in spite of his indolence--he could be relied on to keep his word. In fact, he had one or two good qualities in reserve. If he made no close friendships, he had no enemies. "It was too great a trouble," he would have told you. "Too great a fag." That was only half the truth; the whole truth was that Waterman had, at bottom, a very good heart, though it was not often seen. It was hidden under his indolence of manner. He allowed a corner of it to be seen in a curious fashion on the way back to the school. He stuck to Paul's side--both hands in his pocket, of course--and made no attempt to "cut him," as the others had done. They passed several of the Gargoyles as they reached the school grounds, and directly Waterman's ears caught the suggestion of a jibe--and he had rather sharp ears considering how lazy he was--he would start whistling a popular tune, so that the jibe had a good deal of the sting taken from it by the time it reached its mark. "I wish you could make it right with the fellows," he remarked, as he took leave of Paul. "All in good time. I'm grateful that you haven't turned your back on me, Waterman." "Oh, don't butter me for that. I can't turn my back on any one--it's too great a fag." And Waterman strolled away with his hands in his pocket as though they had been glued there, whistling "Hail, smiling morn." Paul's talk with him had put him in a more cheerful mood. "I've only to find Stan and explain things. I don't care a snap of my fingers for the other fellows--they can go to Halifax," Paul told himself, as he went in search of Stanley. But though he searched for him in every direction, he could not find him. "He don't like to show himself just yet, with so many beauty spots on his face. Perhaps he's lying down," thought Paul, as he made his way to the dormitory. But Stanley was not in the dormitory--it was empty. "Strange. Where can he have got to?" Descending the stairs, the first boy he ran against was Plunger. "Seen anything of Moncrief major?" he asked. Plunger simply stared at him, while his eyebrows went up, in the way they had, till they disappeared into the stubborn thatch above. "Did you hear what I said?" Plunger did another movement with his eccentric eyebrows, then turned on his heel. Paul sprang after him, angry in spite of himself. "Now look here, Master Plunger," he said, seizing him by the collar, and twisting him sharply round, "none of your nonsense. You needn't pretend that you didn't hear me, because you did. I asked you a civil question, and I want a civil answer." "You ought to know more about him than I do, Percival. The last I saw of him he was being knocked about for you in the sand-pit." And Plunger laughed impudently in Paul's face. Paul's hand fell from his collar. The jibe struck home, and Plunger went laughing on his way. He was always supremely happy when he could "score," as he termed it, "off those bounders of the Fifth." Paul felt that he had descended low, indeed, when he could be used as a target for the jibes of Master Freddy Plunger. He glanced back to the flag that waved above Garside--from the flag to the school door. As he did so, the figure he was looking for appeared in the doorway--the figure of Stanley Moncrief. CHAPTER XVII THE "GARGOYLE RECORD" Stanley was not alone, as Paul hoped he would be. Newall and Parfitt were with him. It was evident that his new-found friends had been "doctoring" him, for the blood had been carefully washed from his face, and it presented a less bruised and battered appearance. As he came from the door he caught sight of Paul. Paul hoped that he had got over his bitterness towards him by this time, and that he would come forward and greet him on the old footing of friendship. But he was disappointed; for as soon almost as Stanley caught sight of him, he turned away his head and commenced talking rapidly to Newall, as though he were unaware of Paul's existence. It was perfectly evident that his feeling to Paul had not softened in any way, and it was quite as clear that he meant ignoring him. Paul determined to speak to him, however, so, as he passed by him, he touched him on the shoulder. "Stanley!" At his touch, Stanley turned swiftly round and confronted him with blazing eyes. "What do you want with me?" "To speak with you for a few moments--alone." "I've had as much speaking with you as I ever want to have. I never wish to speak with you again--never, never!" He was greatly agitated. His voice was trembling with passion; but it grew calmer and harder, as, turning to his new-found companions, he said: "You hear what I say, Newall; and you, Parfitt. You are my witnesses." "Yes, we hear. We are your witnesses," said Parfitt. "Thanks!" And without waiting an answer from Paul, the three passed on. Not that Paul had an answer to give. He could not have spoken had his life depended on it. He was too staggered; too pained. Never speak to Stanley again! He with whom he had been on the closest terms of friendship ever since he had been at Garside! "Had he listened to me for a few moments I could have explained all. He doesn't dream who Wyndham is. He can be as stubborn as a mule. And what a look he gave me!" thought Paul. "I never dreamt that Stan would ever look at me in that way. I know what it is--it isn't Stan himself. It's those fellows he's picked up. He's sore against me, and they keep rubbing it in to keep the sore open. If I could only get him away from them." Paul thought for a moment or two how he should act. In spite of Stanley's hard words, he had no intention that the friendship which had existed between them should be severed without one more effort on his part to heal the breach. They were bound to meet in the dormitory that night. It would then be possible for him to whisper a word or two of explanation. But when evening came he found to his dismay that Stanley had left the dormitory. He had got permission to exchange cubicles with Leveson; so that he was now in the same dormitory as Newall. "He's gone over bag and baggage to the enemy," said Paul sorrowfully. "If Parfitt had only walked his chalks, and taken up his quarters with his friend Newall, we could very well have spared him; but Stan----" He glanced round. Parfitt was watching him from the side of his bed, enjoying his discomfiture. That did not serve to lessen Paul's sorrow. "----forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us." Very earnestly he breathed the divine prayer that evening. The breach between him and Stanley seemed to be widening. What was to be done? There was one way left. He would write to him on the morrow. "He has refused to listen to an explanation, but he can't refuse to read my letter." So Paul rose early in the morning and wrote a letter. He explained as briefly as he could the reasons which had made him act as he had done at the sand-pit. "Wyndham was the fellow who acted so nobly when I went with your father's letter to Redmead that night, Stan. I could not raise my hand against him, and I never dreamed that you would. I hurried away because it was impossible for me to explain to the fellows what happened on that night--you alone know why. It would have got all over the place, and would have soon reached Weevil's ears. Then the last chance of finding out what is between him and Zuker would have gone. I can quite understand your soreness against me, old fellow, and I'm sorry--very sorry--that things turned out as they did at the sand-pit; but I hope you now see that I'm not so much to blame as you thought me. It is our first fall-out. Let it be our last. We were never meant to be enemies, old fellow. It mustn't be--mustn't. If all are against me, and you are with me, I shan't so much mind; so let's shake hands." Paul put the letter in an envelope and handed it to Waterman, who was still stretching and yawning, as though not quite awake. "Do you mind giving this to Moncrief major. You're about the only fellow in the Form who wouldn't mind doing me a favour," he said. "Moncrief major. Yes, yes; of course I will. It's an awfully lazy sort of morning, don't you think, Percival?" answered Waterman, stretching himself as he took the letter. That was Waterman's opinion of mornings generally. Every morning was a "lazy sort of a morning." "Yes, Watey," answered Paul, taking him by the arm and hurrying him towards the grounds where most of the scholars were. In a little while he espied Stanley, playing with Newall and Parfitt in the fives-court. "How fellows can fag about at that stupid game I could never make out," remarked Waterman. "Am I to wait for an answer?" "If you wouldn't mind." "Mind? Not in the least. Waiting is so restful." He strolled off leisurely with the letter. Paul watched him. He reached the fives-court, and, waiting his opportunity, handed the note to Stanley. He looked at it; then questioned Waterman. A laugh went up from Newall and Parfitt as he did so. Then Stanley, without opening the letter, tore it into fragments and threw them contemptuously into the air. Waterman thrust his hands deep in his pockets, shrugged his shoulders, and returned to Paul. "You saw what happened, Percival?" he said. "Yes, I saw what happened," came the slow answer. "What was it he asked for?" "He only asked who it was from. I told him." "And then he deliberately tore my letter up and tossed the pieces in the air. Waterman, I'm sorry that you were so insulted." "Don't think of me. I rather liked it--really. A snub does one good on a lazy sort of morning like this--it really does." He was about to pass on, but, checking himself, said in a more serious tone: "I wish I could have brought you a better answer, Percival." That day was one of the longest days Paul ever remembered: it dragged so slowly along. There was Stanley in the same room, sitting at times within a few feet of him, and yet they did not look at each other. No word passed between them. "I will never hold out my hand to him again," said Paul in the bitterness of his heart. He had done all that could be done to bring Stanley to reason, but every effort failed. "He must go his own way, and I must go mine. Some day, perhaps, he'll be sorry that he did not read my letter." Belonging to the Fourth Form was a boy named Dick Jessel. He was a fair-haired, blue-eyed boy--quite a Saxon type--with a shrewd, sharp wit. His father was the editor of a provincial paper, and Jessel ran a journal of his own at the school, by the aid of a hectograph and Jowitt, of the same Form, who was sub-editor, reporter, and "printer's devil" rolled into one. They were called the "two J's." A couple of days after the struggle at the sand-pit a number was issued of the _Gargoyle Record_--so the journal was named. Among other items of news appeared the following: _Motto for the Fifth._ He who fights and runs away Will live to fight another day. "Lost, stolen, or strayed.--A few pages from the Black Book. Whoever will bring the same to the P. D., at the office of this paper, will be rewarded." "Hints on Fashion.--A fresher of the Third is prepared to give hints on the correct style in trousers, spats, and white waistcoats. How they should be worn, and why. References exchanged and given--through the matron--preferably by carte-de-visite." "Lost, stolen, or strayed.--Missing Link from the Third. Last seen in all his native beauty on a window in the Forum. Believed to have hidden himself in a box so as to escape the notice of his pursuers." "Notice.--Our poet is stuck for a rhyme to 'hunger.' If any one can oblige the poet we'll give him a paragraph all to himself in the next number. N.B.--The rhyme must be a name of some kind--bird, beast, or fish." "Dropped. Somewhere near the sand-pit on Cranstead Common. Honour of the Fifth. When last seen was covered by crawlers--believed to be Beetles." Plunger was one of the earliest to obtain a copy of the _Gargoyle Record_. He read the first two paragraphs, and then raced into the common room bubbling over with excitement. Several boys were standing round the fire--some of the Third Form, including Harry Moncrief, Baldry, and Sedgefield; one or two of the Fourth, and three or four of the Fifth, including Stanley Moncrief, Newall--the two were now almost inseparable--Arbery, and Leveson. "Oh, I say, have you seen the last number of the _Record_? It's a slashing number, I can tell you," Plunger burst out. Immediately everybody was eager to get possession of the _Record_. Baldry made a snatch at it. "No, you don't, Baldhead," said Plunger, putting it behind him, with his back to the wall. "Manners! If you can't listen like a gentleman, you'd better git." "Don't mind him, Plunger. He's only an outsider," said Arbery soothingly. "Read." "Read--read!" came in a chorus. "And keep your eyebrows out of your head while you're about it," said Leveson. "I never saw such eyebrows." Plunger glared at Leveson. "Never mind him, Plunger," came the soothing voice of Arbery. "It's only envy, you know. I wish I had eyebrows like 'em. Get on." "I will get on--I will," said Plunger, with a last savage glance at Leveson. "Listen to this--here's a splendid hit against the Fifth." And he read: "'Motto for the Fifth. He who fights and runs away, Will live to fight another day.' Isn't it just splendid!" Those of the Fifth who were present maintained a gloomy silence, while those of the lower forms giggled and chuckled softly to themselves. They dared not do it too openly, for fear of bringing down upon their heads the wrath of the senior Form. When Plunger thought his first item of news had soaked itself thoroughly into the "bounders" of the Fifth, he read the second item. This fell rather flat and elicited no comment. Then Plunger began to bubble over again. He could not get on for a minute or two. "What's the ass giggling for?" "Get on, get on," and so forth, were some of the comments that greeted him. "'Hints on Fashion,'" read Plunger. "'A fresher of the Third'--ho, ho!--'is prepared to give hints on the correct style in trousers, spats, and white waistcoats. How they should be worn, and why.'--Ho, ho! Hold me up.--'References exchanged and given--through the matron--preferably by carte-de-visite.' Ho, ho! Hold me up." Plunger's eyebrows disappeared into his thatch of hair, and he laughed till he was black in the face, while all eyes went to poor Harry Moncrief, who devoutly wished that the ground might open and he might sink through. "Is that all, Plunger?" inquired Arbery. "Get on to the next paragraph, or you'll choke." "I couldn't get any farther for laughter," explained Plunger. "I thought you fellows would like that little tit-bit, so I rushed in here." He took up the paper again, and glanced at the next item. "This seems rather a good bit. 'Lost, stolen, or strayed. Missing Link from the Third. Last seen in all his native beauty on--on----" Plunger came to an abrupt pause, hummed and hawed, and began to look exceedingly uncomfortable. "'Last seen in all his native beauty----' Well, Plunger, what are you stopping for now?" cried Leveson. "If you can't read it yourself, hand over the _Record_ to some one who can." "Shan't; it's my paper, and I'm not going to hand it over to any one--see," answered Plunger defiantly, putting the paper behind his back. "Well, read on," shouted Arbery. "We're dying to hear who the Missing Link can be." "You'd better get a paper of your own, then; I'm not going to read any more of the trash." "Thought it was a slashing number? What's come over you, Freddy?" asked Baldry. "Shut up--oh!" The exclamation came from Plunger as he felt the paper snatched from behind him by Leveson; then, as he tried to regain possession of it, his arms were pinioned behind him by one of the Fifth Form boys. "Oh, oh, just listen!" laughed Leveson, "and see if you can guess why Plunger put the brake on. 'Lost, stolen, or strayed. Missing Link from the Third. Last seen in all his native beauty in the Forum. Believed to have hidden himself in a box so as to escape the notice of his pursuers.'" There was an outburst of laughter, as all eyes went to Plunger, who was making furious efforts to get away. "When it's a question of beauty, there's only one person in it," went on Leveson calmly, "and that is----" "Plunger!" came in a chorus. "When we do agree, our unanimity is wonderful, as the Head used to tell us," went on Leveson. "Any other pretty bits? Oh--ah! Listen to this: 'Notice. Our poet is stuck for a rhyme to "hunger." If any one can oblige the poet, we'll give him a paragraph all to himself in the next number. N.B.--The rhyme must be a name of some kind--bird, beast, or fish.' Ho, ho! Don't squirm so, Plunger. What branch of the animal kingdom do you belong to?" While they were shrieking with laughter at his discomfiture Plunger shouted above it all: "Go on--go on! As you have gone so far, you'd better go on a bit farther. Ah, you're not quite so ready with your reading now, Mr. Leveson." The laughter suddenly stopped. "Read--read," came in a chorus. And Leveson read: "'Dropped--somewhere near sand-pit on Cranstead Common--Honour of the Fifth. When last seen, was covered by crawlers--believed to be Beetles.'" There was an ominous silence on the part of the senior boys. The juniors tittered. Leveson screwed up the paper in his hand. "Mind what you're doing, Leveson. That's my paper," cried Plunger. Then there was silence again, as Paul Percival entered the room. CHAPTER XVIII PAUL WRITES A LETTER Stanley's head had fallen to his breast as Leveson read that bitter paragraph from the _Record_. He looked up quickly as Paul entered the room. For the moment it seemed as though he would speak; then he bit his lips fiercely to keep back the words that sprang to them, and went from the room. Newall followed him, then Arbery. One by one they followed his example--Third Form boys as well as Fifth--until one only remained--Waterman, who had been comfortably resting in a chair by the fire throughout the scene described in the last chapter. As the last boy went out, he glanced up. "Hallo, Percival! Is that you?" "Why don't you do the same as the rest of the fellows, and clear out?" asked Paul bitterly. "I'm quite comfortable where I am, thank you." And Waterman stretched out his legs, and settled himself more comfortably in his chair. Paul could see that it was not altogether a question of comfort with Waterman. His laziness was only a cloak to disguise a real feeling of friendship towards him. "The fellows were discussing me as I came in?" "I don't quite know what they were discussing. Oh, young Plunger had made himself an ass, as usual, over some paragraph in the _Record_. That was it." Leveson had screwed up the paper, it will be remembered, when he had read the paragraph about the honour of the Fifth, and, as Paul entered, had flung it contemptuously from him into a corner of the room. Paul's eye went to it as Waterman was speaking. "Paragraph in the _Record_," he repeated, as he smoothed it out. "What have they got to say about Plunger?" He quickly read the paragraphs which had reference to Plunger, and then he read the one which he knew well enough had reference to himself. Waterman rose from his chair as the paper dropped from Paul's hand and placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're cut up, Percival. I wouldn't let that paragraph worry me. It's really not worth it. There's nothing in the world worth worrying about--there really isn't." "You don't mean what you say, Waterman--though it's kind of you to say it. Honour's worth troubling about--one's own honour; the honour of one's form; the honour of one's school; and I know that, disguise it as you may, you're just as keen on it as any in the school. And all the fellows believe that I've dragged it through the mud." "Oh, well, things will clear up some day, Percival; then you'll come into your own," said Waterman cheerfully. "Some day I suppose they will; but it may be a long time first, and there's no game so hard to play as the waiting game." "That's where you're wrong, Percival. There's no game in the world like it--the waiting game, I mean. There's no fag about it, and that's what I like. Just wait your time, you know--take it easy--no flurry--go as you please. It's the game of all games for my ha'pence. It really is, Percival. So don't worry, old fellow--and don't flurry." Paul could not help smiling to himself at Waterman's easy view of things, but the smile quickly disappeared when he was once more alone. Waterman had talked about "things clearing up," and "coming into his own"; but would things ever clear up? Would he ever win back the honour of the Form, and the confidence of those who belonged to it? Saddest of all was the memory that Stanley, who had been his greatest friend, now appeared to be his greatest enemy. Suddenly it occurred to him--he would write to Mr. Walter Moncrief, and tell him what had happened that night when he went to Dormitory X. The idea had occurred to him before, but he had put it off in the hope that he might have surer evidence to go upon. No further evidence had been forthcoming, but delay might be dangerous; so he determined to write. So he went into the writing-room, and wrote to Mr. Moncrief, telling him exactly what had happened on the night he went to Dormitory X. "I am pretty well certain," he went on, "that the man I saw with Mr. Weevil is one of the men who came after me on the night I came to your house at Redmead--the chief of the two. It was night-time, but I had a fairly good view of his face. What he has to do with Mr. Weevil, I can't make out. I should be sorry to think that Mr. Weevil has anything to do with a traitor to his country; but there must be something at the bottom of it all. What that something is, you may be able to find out better than I can. Dr. Colville, our Head, is away, so I cannot go to him. What ought to be done? Will you let me know what you think?" Having written this letter, Paul felt more comfortable. So soon as he heard from Mr. Moncrief, his lips would be unsealed, and he might take steps to clear his own honour. He would then be able to explain to his Form--to all the school if need be--what had prevented him from confronting Wyndham at the sand-pit. But having finished his letter, there was one great difficulty in the way. All letters written in the school were supposed to pass, first of all, through the hands of the master. How could he let that letter pass through the hands of Mr. Weevil? As he was thinking over this dilemma, Hibbert entered the room, and told him that Mr. Travers wished to speak to him. Mr. Travers was master of the Fifth. Paul rose to his feet, and thrust the letter in his pocket, wondering what Mr. Travers could want with him. Then it occurred to him that Hibbert was just the boy he wanted; he could trust Hibbert with anything. Hibbert would post the letter for him. "Hibbert, I want you to do me a great favour," he said, drawing the letter from his pocket. "I want you to post this letter for me. There's nothing wrong in it, I give you my word of honour; but, I don't want Mr. Weevil to know. That's why I am not sending it through the school post." Hibbert expressed his willingness to post it, and Paul handed him the letter, then went to Mr. Travers' room. Hibbert hastened off with the letter, but, as ill-luck would have it, he ran full tilt against Mr. Weevil, just as he reached the outer door. In doing so, he stumbled, and would have fallen to the ground had not the master caught him by the arm. [Illustration: "AS ILL-LUCK WOULD HAVE IT, HIBBERT RAN FULL TILT AGAINST MR. WEEVIL, JUST AS HE REACHED THE OUTER DOOR."] "Hallo! Where are you running to in such a hurry?" he asked, in that gentle voice he always used to Hibbert--softer than that used by him to any other boy in the school. "Out--in--the grounds, sir." In stumbling, Hibbert's hand had been jerked from his breast, and Mr. Weevil caught sight of the letter. "What's that--a letter?" Hibbert did not answer. It was useless denying it. "Step this way." Mr. Weevil's tone had now become quite stern. He led the way into one of the class-rooms; then closed the door. "Now have the goodness to hand me that letter," he said, gazing at Hibbert through half-closed eyes. Hibbert dared not refuse; so he handed him the letter. Mr. Weevil's eyes opened to their fullest extent when he saw the address on it: W. MONCRIEF, Esq., Redmead, Oakville (Kent). "For whom were you posting this letter--Moncrief major, or Moncrief minor?" "Neither," came the low answer. "Who, then? Come; no harm shall befall you if you speak the truth." "I don't mind myself, but--but--I don't want any harm to happen to--to----" "The one who sent you--eh? Well, we'll see. Just tell me frankly who sent you with this letter? It is quite easy for me to find out by opening it, you know; but I would much rather hear it from you." "Percival," answered the boy, hesitatingly, seeing there was no help for it. "Percival!" echoed the master. "Wait here a moment." He left the room with the letter. Hibbert wondered what he intended doing with it. Would he open it, or would he send for Percival? He was on thorns. Percival had particularly wished to keep the note from Mr. Weevil. The very first thing he had asked him to do--and that so simple--he had made a mess of. "How stupid of me! How stupid of me! Percival will never trust me with anything again." In a few minutes Mr. Weevil returned. His face had not lost its sternness. "In sending you with that letter, Percival knew well enough he was acting against the rules of the school." "I--I--dare say it slipped his memory, sir." "Nothing of the sort. He knew well enough he was breaking the rules of the school, and, worse still, that he was making you an accomplice in the act. However, I do not intend to deal severely with the case, for your sake. You are quite new to the ways and rules of this place. Take the letter. Post it; but don't say a word to Percival that I stopped you. Do you understand?" "Yes; I understand," said the boy, as he took the letter, and ran off with it to the post. He looked at the letter as he ran. Was it the same? Yes, the very same--the same address, in Paul's handwriting. It was very kind of Mr. Weevil, and he would always be grateful to him for his kindness. Paul, meanwhile, had gone to Mr. Travers, wondering what he could want with him. The master of the Fifth was a man of about thirty, who led a studious, secluded life. He was a capable master, but had not succeeded in winning the sympathies of the scholars. One of the chief reasons was that, though he took an interest in their studies, he took little interest in their sports. He preferred instead long, solitary rambles. Paul was, therefore, the more surprised when he found that the object of Mr. Travers in sending for him was to question him as to the relations between him and his class-mates. "I've noticed that you do not appear to be on very good terms with the Form, Percival," he said. "I should not have said anything about it, only I happened to be near the Common Room this afternoon when you entered, and found that that was a signal for the others to march out. I don't like a feeling of that kind in my Form. I know well enough that boys will have their quarrels, and that they can be usually trusted to settle them alone; but this seems to me deeper than an ordinary quarrel, otherwise I should not have spoken. I have no wish to press for your confidence, but if you will tell me what the cause of this ill-feeling is, I might do something to bring about a better understanding between you and the Form." "Oh, it's only a bit of a dispute between me and Moncrief major." "And for a dispute between you and Moncrief major all the Form are against you?" "They take his side, sir. They think that he is right and I'm in the wrong--that is all." "That is all!" echoed the master. "And that is all the explanation you can give? Remember, I'm not forcing an explanation from you. I'm not asking you as your master, but as your friend." Paul was drawn to him as he had never been drawn before, such is the power of sympathy. He regretted more than ever that he had sent the letter to Mr. Moncrief; but it was impossible to recall it. Hibbert was on his way with it at that moment to the post. "That is all the explanation I can give, sir." "Very well, Percival"--the manner of Mr. Travers changed as the words fell from Paul's lips; he was again the master, and frigid as ice--"then there is nothing more to be said. I regret that I sent for you." Thus curtly dismissed, Paul went out, feeling miserable. At the time when he so wanted a friend he had lost one. And yet how else could he have acted? There was no other way. He must wait and see what the letter to Mr. Moncrief would bring forth. And with this thought uppermost in his mind he went to the writing-room to await the return of Hibbert. CHAPTER XIX THE SCHOOL OF ADVERSITY Paul took up a pen as he sat and waited, and idly traced words upon the blotting-paper. But his thoughts were far away. He was thinking of the interview he had just had with Mr. Travers. He was still thinking of it when the door opened and Hibbert entered. "Have you posted the letter?" Paul asked. "Yes; the postman was just clearing the box when I slipped it in." Paul would almost as soon that he had not succeeded in posting it--that he had brought the letter back with him. Perhaps it was best as it was, however. "Thanks, Hibbert." He did not notice that the boy was looking uncomfortable--as though he had something on his mind but dared not speak it. "You have seen Mr. Travers?" "Yes." Then noticing for the first time the nervous, apprehensive look in the boy's eyes, and thinking it was due to the fear that he had got into further trouble with the master, he added: "Nothing happened. He was quite nice with me." "I'm glad of that." By this time Hibbert was standing by Paul's side. Suddenly an exclamation came from his lips. "Hallo! What's wrong?" Paul, looking at the boy, saw that his eyes were fixed upon the blotting-paper. "That--that! Do you know anybody of that name?" he asked, as he pointed to a name Paul had unconsciously traced on the blotting-paper--that of Zuker. "Why? Do you?" Paul asked. "Y-yes," answered the boy, with hesitation. "I--I once knew a boy of that name." "Where?" asked Paul, at once interested. "When I was at school in Germany; but there are a good many Zukers there, you know, and the boy I speak of is dead." "Dead! Did you know his father?" Hibbert shook his head. Paul tore up the blotting-paper. It was just possible that Mr. Weevil might catch sight of the name, just as Hibbert had done. "You--you don't like the name?" the boy asked, as he watched Paul. "Oh, it's as good as any other, I suppose." "You must have known some one of that name--I'm certain of it," persisted the boy. "Well, I don't mind telling you, Hibbert--you've been such a good little chap to me--it was through a man of that name my father lost his life." "A man of the--of the name of Zuker?" stammered Hibbert. "Yes." "Tell me--do tell me--all about it?" pleaded the boy, clutching Paul suddenly by the arm. "Oh, it's a sad tale, and it won't interest you." "Indeed it will--very, very much. Anything that has to do with you interests me. Tell me." Without intending to compliment Paul, the boy had paid him the most delicate compliment he could have done. Besides, Paul was now very much alone, and in his loneliness it was nice to have some one to speak to; so he told his eager listener the tragic circumstances that had cost his father his life. Hibbert scarcely spoke or moved all the time Paul was telling the story. He hung upon every word. "How noble of your father to jump overboard and save the man--the man Zuker," said the lad, when Paul had finished. "There's not many who would have risked their life to save an enemy. I think you said Zuker was an enemy." "Well, I don't know about an enemy. He seems to have been a wretched, contemptible spy; but what's wrong with you?" he suddenly exclaimed, as his eyes went to the boy's face. It was of an ashen pallor, and he was trembling in every limb. "Nothing wrong, except--except that I can't help thinking what a lot you and your mother must have suffered after your father's death." "I didn't suffer much, because I was too young to remember him. I was only a little more than a year old when it all happened. Still, I should so like to have known my father. They say he was very brave, and kind, and true, and one of the best captains in the Navy; and when sometimes I think of him, and what he might have been to me, I feel very bitter against the man for whom he gave his life. Then I battle against the feeling, and a better takes its place. I think to myself--What nobler death could a man die than in trying to save the life of one who had done him wrong." "Yes, Percival," said the boy, looking away; "it was a noble death--very noble--and your father must have been a noble man. What was it the spy did?" "Got into my father's cabin, and tried to get at his private despatches." "And where were they taking this man--the spy--when he jumped overboard?" "To Gibraltar, where he was to be tried by court-martial." "And after they'd tried him by court-martial?" "If the court-martial had found him guilty, they would have shot him." "Shot him?" "Yes, they showed no quarter at that time, I believe, to one who stole, or tried to steal, State secrets." "Oh, how horrible!" cried the boy, covering his face with his hands. "Don't you think that a man like that deserves to die, Hibbert? Remember, it isn't only one life he places in peril, but hundreds--thousands. He betrays a country." "Yes, yes, I dare say you are right, Percival--I'm certain you are right; but none the less, it sounds very terrible. Is it the same now as it was then--that no quarter would be given to a spy, I mean?" "I think so. But I'm sorry I told you the story," said Paul, looking at the boy apprehensively. His face was still deathly pale, while he trembled in every limb. "I didn't think it would cut you up so. Any one would think," he added, with a sad smile, "that it was your father's death I'd been talking about instead of mine." "Yes, my father"--and the boy gave a little, stifled laugh. "I--I've been putting myself in your place, you see. How was it the spy got away?" "He was tried by court-martial, but nothing could be proved against him, you see; for my father was the principal witness, and he was at the bottom of the sea." "At the bottom of the sea," repeated the boy, as a tear stole slowly down his cheek. "And you don't know what became of the spy?" "Oh, I suppose he returned to his own country after that," said Paul carelessly; for he did not want to tell Hibbert his suspicions that Zuker was still in England and not so far away. "But be off now, and have a good run in the open. You've had enough of my yarn, and will be dreaming about spies and drowning all night." Hibbert brushed the tear from his eye. It seemed as though his heart were too full for speech; for he went out without a word. "What a sensitive little chap he is!" thought Paul. "He was full to overflowing as I told him that story. I wonder what his people are like?" He got up as he spoke and went out. A throng of boys were playing in the grounds. Too absorbed in their games, they took no notice of Paul, for which he was devoutly thankful. He walked out of the grounds, along the road leading to St. Bede's. Scarcely noticing the direction in which he was travelling, he was rudely awakened from his reverie by the shout of "A Gargoyle--a Gargoyle!" And before he could move a step farther he found himself surrounded by a dozen boys, who danced wildly round him, shouting the name of contempt again and again, as though they were a band of savages, and had suddenly discovered a victim for the sacrifice. Paul saw at a glance that he had fallen into the hands of the enemy--in other words, into the hands of the rival school. There were senior boys and junior boys. Prominent amongst the latter he noticed Mellor, who was quite ecstatic with delight at having trapped a Gargoyle. "Why, hanged if it isn't the fellow who turned tail and ran!" cried one of the seniors. "Yes, Percival. Didn't you see that?" said Mellor. "So it is," came in a chorus. "The noble champion of the Gargoyles--ho, ho!" cried the senior. "Ho, ho!" came in a chorus, and they commenced dancing round Paul, in a wilder, madder fashion than before. "Ho, ho, ho! The noble champion of the Gargoyles." "'And he bared his big right arm,'" cried one, when this chorus had ceased. "And cried aloud, 'Come on,'" shouted another. "Come one, come all, this rock shall fly From its firm base sooner than I!" shouted a third. A scream of laughter greeted this sally, and then the dancing was resumed to the old chorus. "Ho, ho! ho! The noble champion of the Gargoyles!" Paul stood motionless as a statue and as white as one in the midst of the jeering, mocking throng. He made no answer to the jibes, but waited until they had exhausted themselves. It was some time before that happened. At length the cries grew feebler, the wild dancing slackened. "Well, have you nearly finished?" Paul asked. "Listen. The noble champion of the Gargoyles is speaking. He's got a tongue," exclaimed the senior who had first spoken. "And legs as well," said a second. "And doesn't he know how to use them!" added a third--an observation which drew out another shriek of laughter. From white Paul turned scarlet. To keep silent under provocation, more especially provocation that is undeserved, is one of the hardest lessons that can be learned, boys and girls. Paul was only a boy, with a boy's impulses, passions, and feelings. But some time was to pass before he was to learn the great lesson of how to keep these passions under perfect control--and many things were to happen in the interval--but he had begun the task. Rough and bitter though the schooling was, in no better way could the lesson have been taught than in that school of adversity through which he was now passing. "When you've quite finished," said Paul, as they once more came to a pause, "I would like to go on my way." "Where? To the sand-pit?" came a voice. "No; he'd rather keep away from that. He'll always give that a pretty wide berth," some one answered. "Why not take him there? He doesn't know what a nice place it is for a picnic." The suggestion was hailed with delight. "The sand-pit--the sand-pit!" was the cry. Immediately a rush was made for Paul. It was more than flesh and blood could stand. Paul had kept wonderfully calm and cool up to the moment; but directly they tried to put hands upon him he struck out right and left. With so much vigour did he strike that he might have made his way through the howling, struggling pack, but just at the moment he had got himself free, Mellor, who was one of those who had been knocked to the ground, caught him by the legs and brought him with a crash to the ground. "On him--on him!" was the cry. "Back--back! Cowards all!" At the instant they were about to seize Paul a figure dashed into their midst, scattering the struggling pack to right and left. CHAPTER XX WYNDHAM AGAIN TO THE RESCUE "Back, back! Twelve to one--cowards, cowards!" The Bedes fell back as the youth fell among them, and cleared a passage to Paul. Paul, momentarily stunned by his fall, breathed freely again, and leapt to his feet. "Why, it's Percival!" said the new-comer. "Are you hurt?" Paul could scarcely believe his eyes, as he found himself again confronting Gilbert Wyndham. "No, thanks," he answered stiffly. He would rather have been indebted to any one than to Wyndham. He had wished to clear off the debt between them, but instead of that he found himself more indebted to him than ever. For a second time he had been placed under an obligation to him. "You don't see who it is, Wyndham," came a voice from the ranks of the Bedes, disappointed of their prey. "It's a Gargoyle--the wretched Gargoyle who showed such a clean pair of heels at the sand-pit." "Yes, I do see who it is; but, whoever he is, that's no reason why a dozen of you should set on him at once. That's not fair play, Murrell." "Half a dozen of 'em set on me," came the voice of Mellor. "What's good enough for the Gargoyles ought to be good enough for us." "That's just where you're wrong, Mellor," answered Wyndham coolly. "What's good enough for a Gargoyle isn't good enough for a Bede--is it, Bedes?" A murmur of ready assent went up at this appeal--from all except Mellor. "You see, you are half a Gargoyle yourself, Mellor, or you would have known that. You belong to the amphibia at present. When you've grown out of that you will know better, won't he, Bedes?" A laugh went up--from all except Mellor. The storm which had looked threatening began to clear under the ready tact of Wyndham. Still, the boys did not like the idea of letting Paul go scot-free. "Yes, you'll know better than that by-and-by, Mellor," said the youth addressed as Murrell. "Your education was neglected as a Gargoyle. You'll improve as you go along. But, I say, Wyndham, what are you going to do with the specimen you've got? You can't stick it in the museum, you know. So turn it over to us again. We won't hurt it. We'll only give it a run to the sand-pit, and a roll down. It will do it good. Eating sand is better than eating dirt." "Yes, hand him over," came in a chorus. "No," came the decided answer, as Wyndham twined his arm in Paul's. "The Gargoyle is my property." "What are you going to do with him?" demanded Murrell. "I want to have a little quiet talk with him, that's all." What could Wyndham want with a little quiet talk with a Gargoyle? It could only be for one purpose--to gather information which might be of use to the Bedes in any future campaign against Garside. So the boys reluctantly turned away, and left Wyndham and Paul together. "Why have you come a second time to my help?" came in a choking voice from Paul when they were alone. "Really, I don't know," smiled Wyndham. "Does it matter much? Do you mind?" "Mind! After what happened at the sand-pit the other day. Mind! I would rather have been under an obligation to any one than you." "Do you mean it?" asked Wyndham, now quite grave. "Of course I do. I was never more in earnest in my life. I had hoped to clear off the debt that was between us, and now you have placed me in your debt a second time." "If you mean by debt that little service I was only too pleased to do for you at the well, I thought it was quite cleared off." "How?" "By the service you did for me at the sand-pit the other day." "You are mocking me?" "I was never more serious in my life," answered Wyndham, using Paul's words. "When I saw you standing before me at the sand-pit--saw who your fellows had selected as their champion--I was staggered. You were the last in the world I dreamt of seeing. I could see that you were bewildered, but not more than I was. I knew not how to act. Fight you? Impossible! Go away--turn on my heel? That seemed impossible, too. I should be stamped as a coward. I could not explain, because that would have meant giving away your secret. Then, as the thoughts flashed through my mind, you solved the riddle. You had the courage to do what I couldn't--you walked away." Paul regarded Wyndham in wonder. The thoughts which had passed through Wyndham's mind were almost the same thoughts that had passed through his. The same struggle had gone on in both. For the moment the hard, bitter feeling that had stirred within him softened, and he was on the point of holding out his hand, when he remembered that it meant clasping the one that had so severely punished Stanley. "I walked away," he echoed; "and then?" "Why, then," smiled Wyndham, "things couldn't have happened better. Some bounder amongst your mob was anxious to bound into your shoes. He jumped up in an awfully excited way, muttering something about 'the honour of the Form.' He insisted on fighting me, and I didn't mind in the least. You know how it ended." "Too well--too well," repeated Paul sadly. "Better far had I stayed. That was my friend you punished so." "Your friend!" "The best friend I had at Garside. We are friends no longer. Instead of that, he looks upon me now as his worst enemy, while all the school look upon me as a cur. But it isn't that I mind so much, it's losing the friendship of Stanley Moncrief." "I'm sorry. I did not dream things were as bad as that. Who is this Stanley Moncrief?" "He is the son of that gentleman for whom I took the letter to Redmead on the night you met me, and did me so great a service." "If it was a service, I've undone it now," answered Wyndham sorrowfully. "I could not have done a worse one than I did you at the sand-pit. Why couldn't you explain to your friend?" "I've tried to, but he won't listen. He is smarting under his defeat, and I don't wonder at it." There was silence between them for a minute or two, then Wyndham exclaimed: "Are you going back to Garside?" "Yes. Why?" "Because I am going with you. Moncrief won't listen to you. He will listen to me." "No, no!" said Paul firmly. "It is very kind of you, but I would rather not. If Stanley Moncrief and I are ever to be friends again, he will have to find out for himself that I'm not the cur he thinks me. I've tried to explain, but he would not hear. I shall never try again, unless he comes round and asks me." "I think you are right," said Wyndham, after a pause. "None the less, I'm sorry--deeply sorry--that you should have lost your friend through me." "Oh, things will work round presently," said Paul lightly. "I suppose, after that affair at the sand-pit, you were quite the hero of your school?" "I don't know about hero. They made a lot of fuss over me, because, as you know well enough, there's no love lost between us and Garside. But if anybody deserves to be the hero of a school, it is you." "Nonsense!" "It is easy enough to flow with the tide, but awfully hard to struggle against it. That's what you're doing just now, Percival." He walked with Percival for some distance on the road to Garside, and when they separated they shook hands, unaware of the fact that they had been seen by one of the Third Form. After Wyndham's explanation, how was it possible for Paul to refuse the hand held out to him? Now, Stanley Moncrief was at this time in his dormitory, very miserable. He had been so, in fact, ever since he had broken with Paul. He had a real affection for him. He had loved him as he might have loved a brother; then, after his defeat at the sand-pit, he felt that there was only one thing to be done, and that was to--hate him. So he had broken off the friendship, and rushed into the arms of the two whom he disliked--Newall and Parfitt. But when Stanley began to reflect a little more deeply, he began to see that he could not altogether shake off the old link that bound him to Paul. He had always been comfortable and at ease with him--could sit with him, as it were, in his shirt-sleeves and slippers. He had felt at home with him from the first day they met. He could not feel the same with Newall or Parfitt, try as he might. He seemed to be ever acting a part when he was with them, and they seemed to be doing the same when they were with him. For instance, he would have liked to have read the letter Paul sent him by Waterman; but the eyes of Newall were upon him, so he tore it up in bravado, and scattered the fragments in the way already described. It was not Stanley's real self did that--he was acting a part. Again, when Paul entered the common room, looking so sad and miserable, Stanley's heart prompted him to stay and speak to his old friend. Perhaps he might have done so had he been alone; but he felt that the eyes of the others were upon him, especially Newall's. Something was expected of him. He was to give the lead; so he gave the lead, by walking from the room, and the rest followed him, with the solitary exception of Waterman. Then he joined in the laughter and the jeers of his new-found friends when they got outside, all at the expense of Paul. Again, Stanley was acting a part. At heart he felt miserable. The sadness of Paul's face haunted him, and as soon as he could he escaped from his companions to the solitude of the dormitory. He had been puzzled all along how it was Paul had acted in such a cowardly way at the sand-pit. He knew that he had no love for fighting; but once having taken up the gage of battle, he was not one to shrink from it. What was it his father had said? That no braver youth could be found than Paul Percival. His uncle had the same opinion, and they were not the men to make mistakes. Had his nature suddenly altered, or what had happened? More and more he regretted that he had not opened Paul's letter. It might have given him the answer to the riddle. So Stanley sat on the side of the bed for a long time, very miserable. Indeed, I very much question whether of the two he was not the more miserable. It is true that nearly all Paul's companions dropped away from him; but perhaps it was better to lose companions than to have those you did not really want. "It is all a hideous mistake. I'll go and make it up with Paul," he thought. As he was thus thinking, the door opened, and his cousin entered. "Well, Harry, what do you want?" he asked gruffly, as though resenting the intrusion. Harry eyed him for a moment without answering. "Can't you speak? Have you lost your tongue, Harry?" "I saw Percival a little while ago, Stan." "Well--what of it? What's that to me?" "Nothing much, I suppose." "Where did you see him?" "Not very far from here. He was with that fellow--that beastly Beetle--who fought with you." "What were they doing?" "Oh, they were walking and talking together--very chummy. When they left, they shook hands--almost kissed each other." "Shook hands! You are sure?" "Positive." "Run off, youngster. Leave me," cried Stanley hoarsely. Harry ran out, wondering at the effect his information had had upon his cousin. "Shook hands with him!" echoed Stanley, as he sank with a groan upon the bed. CHAPTER XXI THE CHASM WIDENS Unintentionally Harry Moncrief had made deeper the chasm between the one-time friends. It was quite evident to Stanley, from Harry's description of what he had witnessed, that there was an understanding between Paul and Wyndham, otherwise they would never have shaken hands with each other. The fact that Paul could take the hand of one who had thrashed him set the blood tingling in Stanley's veins. That showed plainly enough that Paul was on friendly terms with his enemy--with an enemy of the school. What was to be done? Stanley got up and paced the room. The softer feelings that had been working in his breast vanished. "I will never speak to Paul Percival again--never!" he said fiercely. "Perhaps the whole of that business at the sand-pit was a trap of his into which I was fool enough to fall. How else could they have shaken hands together?" It seemed to him, thus blinded by suspicion against his friend, that it could only have one meaning--they were gloating over his defeat. Meanwhile, Harry Moncrief had no sooner descended the stairs leading from the dormitories than he came sharply into contact with Plunger, who was hurrying along the corridor as though he were rushing full speed up a cricket pitch to prevent himself from being run out. "Hallo, Harry, just the fellow I was looking for!" he exclaimed. "Are you, Freddy? Then I wish you'd look for me with your eyes instead of your elbows," answered Harry, rubbing his ribs, which were aching from the blow they had just received from the boniest part of Plunger's elbows. "What is it?" "You know that twaddle in the _Gargoyle Record_ about the poet being stuck for a rhyme to 'hunger'?" "Yes," laughed Harry, as he recalled Plunger's confusion when the paragraph was read aloud in the common room. "What are you grinning at? You don't mean to say you saw anything funny in it?" "Oh, no; but you're bound to laugh when the other fellows laugh, you know. It's like the measles--catching. I'm all right now. Go on. You were saying----" "I believe that paragraph was sent in to the editor--Dick Jessel, you know--by Baldry." "Oh! What makes you think that?" "He's been worrying about rhymes ever since that paragraph was read out--that's why. You see, he sent in the paragraph so that he might have another shot at me with the answer. Baldry's a deep 'un." "But why should he send in paragraphs to the _Record_ against you?" "Well, I make fun of his name, so he's trying to score off me in return. But he can't do it, for 'Plunger's' no sort of rhyme to 'hunger.' And there's another thing I've got to tell you in confidence, Harry. I believe that cartoon of me on the Forum window was Baldry's work." "Oh!" answered Harry drily. "What makes you think that?" "Baldry once said that if the glue business failed"--Plunger's father was a glue and size merchant in a large way of business--"I could always pick up my living as an artist's model." "How?" "Well, he had the cheek to tell me I had a funny sort of face. And Baldry's smart with the pencil, you know; so, putting this and that together, I believe Master Baldry not only sent in that paragraph to the _Record_, but put my face on the Forum window." "Very wrong of him, Freddy," said Harry sympathetically. "What are you going to do with him?" "Well, I've got a lovely old basket, once the property of a dear and highly-respected friend of yours, Mrs. Trounce, and this basket is filled with a lovely collection of feathers. Along with these feathers will be mixed a little glutinous substance, as the chemistry master calls it, which I brought last term from the pater's works. This basket will be fixed directly over the Forum door, by means of a string, the end of which will be held by some one hidden in a tree at the back of the Forum. That some one in the tree will be you. Are you listening?" "Ra-ther. That some one in the tree will be me. Go on." "My dearly beloved and much respected chum, Sammy Baldry, will receive a message calling him to the Forum at half-past six. Someone will be at the side of the Forum, so as to know the exact moment Baldry appears on the scene. Directly he nears the door that some one will whistle. That will be a signal to you up in the tree. Baldhead will open the door. Then you'll pull the string. Over will go the basket, and down will come the pretty feathers over Baldhead. In the information Baldry was good enough to supply to the _Gargoyle Record_, affectionate inquiries were made, you remember, after the Missing Link, last seen in all his native beauty in the Forum. What price for Baldry, eh? When he gets these feathers on him he'll be a puzzle. No one will be able to tell which kingdom he belongs to--animal, vegetable, or mineral." And Plunger chuckled so that it seemed as though he would never be able to stop himself. Just to keep him company, Harry chuckled too. "Splendid little joke, isn't it, Harry?" "Splendid." "I told you what fun you'd have when you got to Garside. Better than Gaffer Quelch's, eh? Things were awfully slow there, weren't they, Harry?" "Awfully." But, so far as fun was concerned, Harry couldn't see that he had had very much of it, except at his own expense. Plunger had, in fact, made him his butt, and now he wished to score off Baldry through his instrumentality. "I didn't quite understand you, Freddy," said Harry presently, as Plunger went on chuckling. "Who do you say was to be up in the tree at the back of the Forum and pull the string?" "You, Harry. I'm giving you the post of honour, because you deserve it. Baldry has poked fun at you a lot. Now it's your turn, old fellow." "It's very kind of you, Freddy--it really is. I don't know how to be grateful enough. I'm to be in the tree, you say: but where will you be?" "Oh, I'll do the whistling." "The whistling?" "Yes, to let you know up in the tree when Baldry comes along. Then, directly Baldry opens the door, you pull the string, and--there you are. Baldry in full plumage. It's all clear enough, isn't it?" "All clear enough;--but----" "But what? You're not going to cry off, are you?" "I'm not going to cry off; but suppose we change places." "How do you mean?" "You go up the tree and do the pulling, and let me do the whistling." "Why, it'll be ever so much more fun to pull the string. I want to give you the best position, you see." "I know you do, Freddy. I know your good nature; but I'm not going to let you make the sacrifice. I'll do the whistling." "Very well, if you wish it. I don't mind which I do," said Plunger, in a lofty tone. "Only don't make a mess of it." "Oh, my part's so simple, I can't make a mess of it. Mind you don't make a mess of yours, Freddy." Now Harry decided, immediately on quitting Plunger, that he would acquaint Baldry with the joke that Plunger intended to play upon him. It was he who had drawn that cartoon in the Forum that had stirred Plunger to wrath, and Harry came to the conclusion that it was not right that Baldry should suffer for him. Besides, as Plunger had so often scored over him, he thought it only right that he should begin to equalize matters. So he hunted up Baldry, and informed him of Plunger's kind intentions towards him. "Oh," said Baldry, when Harry had ended, "that's Plunger's little game, is it? I thought he was getting a bit cross, but I didn't think he meant showing his teeth. The beauty of it is, I hadn't anything to do with that portrait of him on the Forum window. I know no more about it than you do." "Than I do!" echoed Harry, smiling to himself. "He made a better guess when he told you that I inspired those paragraphs in the _Record_. I just gave a hint to Jowett. Jowett passed it on to Jessel, and Jessel put in the smart bits that touched Plunger on the raw. Plunger's all right when he's going for other people, but he doesn't like it when others go for him." Harry quite sympathized with this view of things. "There's my name," went on Baldry. "I can't help my name. I didn't christen myself, and was never asked whether I liked it or not. That's the worst of names. You never are consulted. It's all done for you by your ancestors, and your godfathers and godmothers--and people of that sort. I don't know why it should be, but it is; and there you are--fixed up for life with a name, unless you happen to be a girl, and get married, then you drop it for another, but it may be ever so much worse than the one you've got. Now, what I say is this--Baldry isn't such a bad name, as names go, is it, Moncrief?" "Better than Plunger, any day," remarked Harry, in his most sympathetic manner. "Better than Plunger, as you say, Moncrief. Where Plunger's ancestors picked up a name like that, goodness only knows. It must have come out of the Ark. And yet he's always calling me 'Baldhead,' 'Bladder of Lard,' 'The Lost Hair,' and telling me to go in for hair-restorer, Tatcho, and making feeble jokes of that sort. But I think I went one better when I got that paragraph in the _Record_, eh?" "Yes, Baldry you scored there; but what we've got to think about is, how to prevent Plunger from scoring back. Some one will have to go to the Forum in answer to his invitation, when it comes. It won't matter who, because Plunger won't be able to see; he'll be up in the tree, waiting for my whistle. So who's to be the victim?" Baldry became thoughtful. He ran through the list of his acquaintances whom he thought most deserving of the honour that Plunger proposed to bestow on him. He thought of one or two in his form who might have been available for his purpose, but it was just possible that they were in the confidence of Plunger. So he turned from his own form to the Fifth--"the bounders of the Fifth." "I've got it," he suddenly exclaimed. "Percival!" "Percival!" echoed Harry. "Yes; that's the ticket; the very thing--Percival. If it comes off all right, it'll be a big hit. We shall be covered with glory, and he'll be covered with feathers--ha, ha! It couldn't be better. Do you see how it fits in? A nice little present of feathers for the fellow who showed the white feather at the sand-pit. Isn't it splendid, Moncrief?" Harry was silent. Percival had been far from his thoughts. He never imagined that Baldry would suggest Percival. For the moment his mind went back to that night when Paul came to Redmead. Once again he could hear the low, earnest tones of his father--"Many thanks for the great service you have done, Paul. You have not only done a great service for me and my brother, but for your country." "Well, Moncrief; why don't you answer?" came the voice of Baldry. "It's the finest idea that has come to me for a long time. Feathers for the fellow who showed the white feather." At the words, the image of his father faded from Harry's mind. He could no longer hear the echo of his words. He only saw his cousin's bleeding face as he rose vanquished from the sand-pit; and, side by side with that picture, he saw Percival walking and talking, and shaking hands with "the wretched Beetle--Wyndham," as he had seen him walking and talking and shaking hands with him that afternoon. "A fine idea--splendid!" he cried. "Nothing could be better. Let Percival be the victim." CHAPTER XXII HATCHING A PLOT, AND WHAT CAME OF IT "Nothing could be better. Let Percival be the victim!" Scarcely were the words out of Harry's lips than Viner come up to Baldry with the notice he was expecting. It was a hectograph copy, announcing that a meeting of the more important members of the Third Form would be held in the Forum at half-past six prompt to consider a matter of pressing importance. Baldry thanked Viner. Viner smirked and retreated. "Viner's in the know, that's certain," said Baldry, when he was out of earshot. "Viner's a crawler." Harry had no great reason to like Viner. It was he who had gone behind him on the day that he had entered Garside, so that Newall might push him over his back. From that incident the quarrel had arisen between Stanley and Newall, and other troubles had followed in its train. "You're right there; but now what's to be done?" "Oh, that's easy enough. We've only got to rub out 'Third Form' and put in 'Fifth,' and then send it on to Percival; and there you are." With the aid of a knife and some hectograph ink this alteration was soon made. The next question was how to get it to Percival without arousing suspicion. As they were considering this point Baldry caught sight of Hibbert crossing the ground. "There's our messenger," he exclaimed. Then he shouted, "Hibbert, Hibbert!" Hibbert looked round. Baldry beckoned him, and he came to where they were standing. "I want you to give this note to Percival. If he asks you where it came from, tell him he will see inside. Then come away. Do you understand?" "Yes," said Hibbert, looking suspiciously at the note. "Well, run along. It won't bite you." Hibbert went off reluctantly with the note. It seemed now as though he were as anxious as the rest to avoid Paul. At any rate, he kept out of his way, but he could not very well refuse Baldry's request. He found Paul by himself, as usual, in the writing-room. He had commenced work in downright earnest on the prize essay. "Hallo, Hibbert, is that you?" he asked, looking up as the boy entered. "What have you got there?" Hibbert handed him the notice without a word, but did not beat a retreat according to the instructions he had received. "Another meeting of the Fifth," Paul said, as much to himself as to Hibbert, when he had glanced at the note. "I wonder they trouble to send to me. It is too great an honour!" No suspicion as to the genuineness of the note crossed his mind. It was quite usual for Sedgefield, who acted as hon. sec. for the Fifth, to send out his notices with a messenger from the junior forms. "What's too great an honour, may I ask?" said Hibbert timidly. Paul explained to him the contents of the notice. "It's to call me over the coals again, I expect. Shall I go or shan't I?" he asked himself. Then, turning smilingly to the boy: "What would you do if you were in my place, Hibbert?" "Stay away," said the boy promptly. "And improve my reputation for courage--eh? Why would you stay away?" Having so far exceeded his instructions, Hibbert thought he might as well go a little further. "Because I don't believe that the Fifth had anything to do with that notice. It came from Baldry and Moncrief minor. I believe it's a trick." Paul, beginning to smell a rat, examined the notice with closer attention, and soon detected the erasion where "Fifth" had been substituted for "Third Form." "Thanks, Hibbert. I don't know why you should, but you're always doing me a good turn." "Not half the good turns you've done me," said the boy earnestly, as he went out. "What's in the wind?" Paul asked himself, when he was alone. "Bitter as Stanley is against me, he can't have set on his cousin to hoax and poke fun at me. Surely not?" What was it, then? He could not guess; but it seemed to him that he must have sunk very low indeed in the eyes of the school when he had become a target for the junior forms. "I must put my foot down on that nonsense," he said to himself, as he paced to and fro the room. At first he thought of making straight for Baldry and Moncrief minor, and demanding what it meant; but on second thoughts he decided against that course, because it would mean mischief to Hibbert. His life at the school would be made more miserable than it was. "The best thing after all will be to face it--to accept the invitation of Masters Moncrief and Baldry to the Forum to-night. I run the risk of being laughed at, I know, but I'm getting fairly used to that. And it's just possible I may be able to turn the tables." Having come to this decision, Paul did the wisest thing possible under the circumstances--dismissed the matter from his mind, and went on with his work. Now it so happened that a meeting of the Fifth had really been called for that evening in the Forum, and still stranger to relate, for the express purpose of discussing Paul. The information that he had been seen in the company of Wyndham, and had actually shaken hands with him, had quickly spread, and the meeting of the Fifth had been called for the express purpose of considering this further development in the feud between the Beetles and the Gargoyles. No notice of this meeting had, however, been sent to Paul. So it was that about the time Paul was getting ready to go to the Forum, little suspecting the proposed meeting, Newall had already started for it, just as ignorant of the little plot that had been hatched by certain members of the Third. Leveson had had some lines which had kept him late in the class-room, and Newall had taken his place in getting the shed ready for the meeting. Thus it happened he was in advance of the rest. It was quite dark as Newall made his way to the shed. Harry Moncrief was hiding at the side, with his whistle between his teeth. The figure coming towards the shed in the darkness he took to be the figure of Paul. "He's up to time," he chuckled to himself. "He's fallen into the trap beautifully." Newall reached the door of the shed, opened it, and passed in. Simultaneously Harry blew the whistle. At the signal, Plunger pulled the string which communicated with the basket immediately over the doorway, sending its contents showering down on the head of Newall. Newall gasped and staggered in the darkness, striking out wildly with his arms. He had a confused idea that some enormous bird of prey had suddenly swooped down from the roof, and was flapping its wings over his head. "Ooshter--ooshter! Get out of it!" he gasped, as he reeled about and struck out wildly at his imaginary foe. Meantime Plunger had slid down quickly from the tree, and, accompanied by Viner and Bember, who had been awaiting the signal in the rear, rushed round to the front. The three held on to the door, so as to keep their victim floundering about in the darkness till they saw fit to release him. "Splendid; couldn't be better," chuckled Plunger. "My, isn't old Baldy carrying on?" His companions could not answer. They were doing their best to smother their laughter. "My, he's carrying on awful!" went on Plunger. "Breaking up the happy home. Didn't think Baldy had so much spring in him. Seems to be all over the shop. Do you hear him, Moncrief? Where is Moncrief?" Moncrief had made himself scarce. He had retreated to a safe distance, where Baldry was awaiting him. By the time he reached him, he, too, was exploding with laughter. "Well, what's happened?" asked Baldry. "Oh, don't ask me. It's too funny for words." "Percival's inside?" "Percival's inside, ramping about like mad, and Plunger, Viner, and Bember are holding the door outside like grim death, and laughing like hyenas over 'old Baldy.' Good, isn't it?" On that Baldry was seized with a fit of laughter too. "Good? The best joke we've had at Garside for a long time," answered Baldry, between gasps. "My, what will happen when they find out their mistake? What will they say when they see Percival stagger out instead of 'old Baldy?'" "Plunger will stagger the most of the two, I reckon," laughed Harry. "I just reckon he will." "And I reckon also that he'd better keep out of the reach of Percival." "Percival!" echoed Baldry contemptuously. "Percival may ramp a good deal, but he's not likely to do much, I'm thinking, after his exhibition at the sand-pits. Percival is----" "I beg pardon, but did I hear some one mention my name?" came a quiet voice in the rear of Baldry. Both boys turned promptly round at the voice. To their amazement Percival was standing before them. "Per--Percival!" exclaimed Harry. "Per--Percival!" echoed Baldry. "I happened to be strolling this way, and thought I heard my name; but perhaps I was mistaken." The boys could not speak. They could only stare with open mouths at Percival. It was a shadowy figure that stood before them in the darkness. Was it indeed Percival, or was it his ghost? "Y--y--yes; we--we--were speaking about you," stammered Baldry, at length. "We--were--just wondering--how you were getting on." "It's very kind of you to think of me," said Paul, with a quiet smile. Paul, quite ignorant of what had transpired in the shed, thought for the moment whether he had better tackle Baldry and Moncrief minor then and there as to their motive in desiring him to go to the shed, but on second thoughts he decided to find out for himself; so he passed on. "Pinch me--punch me--kick me", exclaimed Harry. "Am I awake or am I dreaming, Baldry?" "It was Percival right enough." "Then who--who's--in--the shed?" gasped Harry, a cold perspiration coming to his brow. "What an idiotic question to ask me," retorted Baldry indignantly. "You ought to know best. Are you sure there's anybody in the shed at all?" "I'm sure of that. And--and--I could have sworn it was Percival." "You've made a nice mess of it." "Well, if I have made a mess of it, I've kept you out of it," retorted Harry, beginning to feel sore at the tone taken by Baldry. "After all, Plunger and the others will be taken in a good deal more than we've been, remember. He still thinks it's you he's got a prisoner." "Ah, yes, so he does," exclaimed Baldry, breaking into laughter again; "I'd forgotten that. When that door opens it'll be one of the best little surprise packets Plunger's ever had in his life. Hallo, here comes a lot of the Fifth fellows, and they seem making for the shed, too!" The shadowy figures of Arbery, Parfitt, Hasluck, and a couple of others passed within a short distance of where the two boys were standing. They were conversing eagerly together. There was silence between them for a moment; then an unearthly yell rose on the air. "Goodness! What was that? Enough to lift your hair off, wasn't it, Moncrief?" Harry did not answer. He was trying to pierce the darkness to see what was happening in the direction of the shed. CHAPTER XXIII THE LAST BOND OF FRIENDSHIP While Harry had been explaining to Baldry what had happened at the shed, Plunger and his two companions held fast to the door, under the impression that Baldry was within. Plunger was in a high state of glee at the capture he had made, and as soon as Harry had gone commenced crowing loudly, explaining as he did so that "as old Baldy seemed to be going in for dancing, he must give him a tune to dance to." "Put the soft pedal on for a bit, Freddy," said Viner. "He's saying things to himself. Let's listen." Plunger, who had nearly crowed himself hoarse, kept silent for a moment, as a smothered voice from within travelled through the door. "Open the door--open the door!" "Keep your wool on, Baldy!" retorted Plunger, in his most provoking tones. "Drop the clog-dancing, and give us a song; it's getting monotonous. What's the best rhyme for Baldy? How're the birds, beasts, and fishes getting on? What's the kingdom you've sprinted to--animal, vegetable, or mineral? Any more paragraphs for Jessell? We'll take them along." "Open the door! I'll--I'll smash you when I get out of this!" came the voice from within. "Smash us? Oh, oh, Baldy!" commenced Plunger, but Viner stopped him. "Quiet, Freddy. Listen a moment. It doesn't sound to me like Baldy." "Will you open that door? I'll pay you out for this! I'll--I'll----" "Why--why, it's Newall!" whispered Plunger, aghast. "How's he got in there?" "Don't ask me," said Viner, turning cold, for he had always been on particularly good terms with Newall. "Can there be two of them in there, do you think?" suggested Bember. "Ah, I see it all!" said Plunger, a light beginning to dawn upon him. "Moncrief minor's let us in for this. That's the reason he's bolted." "Seems to me we'd better bolt too," exclaimed Bember. "There won't be much left of you, Freddy, if Newall gets hold of you." "What price you? You're just as much in it as I am." But Bember's advice commended itself to Plunger and Viner, neither of whom was desirous of meeting their captive when he was released, so, suddenly letting go their hold of the door, they bolted with all speed in the direction of the school. Newall continued shouting his threats at the top of his voice for a few moments before he discovered that no one was on guard outside; then he flung open the door, and dashed through with a yell, just as Arbery, Parfitt, Hasluck, and others of the Fifth had started for the shed. They came to a sudden stop when they saw the extraordinary figure that rushed towards them in the darkness. And well they might, for Newall, smothered in feathers from head to foot, presented one of the most extraordinary sights it is possible to imagine. "What is it?" asked Arbery, in an awestruck whisper. "Ask me another. It--it looks like----" But before Hasluck could explain what it looked like Newall had dashed up to them. "Newall!" came the astonished cry. "Who--who's been doing this?" he cried, glaring fiercely round on his companions. "Doing what?" asked Hasluck. "Can't you see? Nearly smothering me with feathers, and fastening me in the Forum." "We know nothing of it. We were just coming to the meeting when we heard the shouting," answered Parfitt, in an injured tone. "Is it likely we'd play a trick on you, Newall?" "It sounded like some of those imps of the Third. They were talking to me as if I were Baldry." At this moment Paul joined the group, wondering what was the matter. Directly Newall caught sight of him, he turned towards him fiercely: "Do you know anything of this? Had you a hand in it?" "I don't know what you are talking about," answered Paul coldly. "Of course not. You never do when it suits your purpose. Can we believe anything from the fellow who shakes hands with a Beetle--with the enemy of Garside?" came the sneering answer. Paul staggered back as though he had been struck. Some one had seen him shake hands with Wyndham then, and, without knowing the facts, his enemies were already putting the worst possible construction on it. Stanley had joined the group as Newall was speaking. "If you can't believe anything I say, what's the use of asking me questions? It seems to me a waste of breath." "Did you or did you not set those fellows on to keep me in the shed?" demanded Newall hotly. "I'm not going to answer you," said Paul firmly. "Then perhaps you'll answer me," said Stanley, stepping forward to Newall's side, pale to the lips. Paul had not noticed his arrival, and did not know that he was present till he heard his voice. It stirred the old feeling of love and friendship within him, though there was little that was friendly in its tone. "Answer you what, Stan?" asked Paul, in softer tones. Stanley knew little of the grounds of the present dispute, but he guessed that he could not be far wrong in repeating the question that Newall had just put. So he repeated it. "Yes, I'll answer it," came Paul's response, "for whatever else you may think me guilty of, Stanley, I don't think you'll believe me guilty of telling a deliberate falsehood. I haven't set anybody on to keep Newall a prisoner in the shed, and, whatever has happened to him, I've had no hand in it." He spoke with such earnestness and sincerity that there was scarcely any one present, with perhaps the exception of Newall himself, who doubted him. "I think you can take Percival's word for it," said Stanley, turning to Newall. "Thanks so much for one crumb of confidence." Paul, in spite of himself, could not prevent a slight accent of bitterness creeping into his voice. "It is really very good of you to think that my word may be taken, and I hope you won't think me ungrateful." "If you say his word may be taken, Moncrief," said Newall, with a shrug of his shoulders, "that's enough. But as you have so much confidence in him, you'd better question him about the Beetle." "I was going to," answered Stanley, as, once more turning to Paul, he asked: "One of the fellows saw you speaking to a Beetle yesterday. Is that true?" "Quite true." "Shaking hands with him?" "Yes." Stanley groaned inwardly. He had hoped that it was a mistake--that his cousin's eyes had deceived him, but there was no mistake. It was only too true. He turned away, unable to hide the disappointment on his face. Paul caught a glimpse of it in spite of the darkness, and was about to speak, but Newall quickly interposed. "There's another question which Moncrief's modesty prevents him from asking," he said, with a sneer. "We've been given to understand that the Beetle you shook hands with is the same Beetle who knocked Moncrief about in the sand-pit. Is that true, too?" Paul was silent, as though he still stood to the resolution he had made not to answer Newall. "Is it--is it?" demanded Stanley, turning swiftly round again, his tone almost as fierce as Newall's had been. "Yes; it is true." Then he added in a lower voice: "There are things I can't explain. Will you meet me quietly, by yourself, just for a few minutes, Stanley?" "There's nothing I'm ashamed of. I've no secrets," came the proud, cold answer. "If you've anything to explain, explain it now--in the presence of my friend Newall and the rest!" "My friend Newall!" The words froze up all the warmer feelings in Paul's breast. It was as though Stanley had taken a knife from his pocket, and with one cruel stroke severed the last bond of friendship between them, and had then bound with firmer hand the bonds that bound him to Newall. "Very well. If that is your last word, I've spoken my last word too." And Paul turned on his heel, leaving them to draw what conclusions they liked from his answer. Newall and his companions set to work removing the feathers which had descended on him in such a shower, and while they were actively engaged in it Waterman came leisurely along, late as usual, and drawled out: "Hallo, Newall! What's wrong? Been moulting?" Newall disdained to answer. It was some time before he got clear of the feathers, and then they left unmistakable marks. "It won't be long before I find out who served me this trick," he said; "but I don't think we want to go to the shed now over the other matter." "Newall's had more than enough of the shed already, seems to me," drawled Waterman. "Dry up, Water. You're getting it on the brain," responded Newall gruffly. "I think Newall's quite right," said Stanley. "There's no need for any meeting now. We've found out that it's all true enough about Percival--that he has met a Beetle, that he has spoken to him, that he has shaken hands with him that he is on friendly terms with him. He's admitted it, so it's no use going to the shed." There was a murmur of assent. "Well, but you can't leave it at that. Something more must be done, else Percival will be laughing at us in his sleeve," said Parfitt. "Why not--why shouldn't we leave it at that?" said Waterman. "What's the use of worrying over trifles? Percival talks to a Beetle. Why on earth shouldn't he, if he likes it? Percival shakes hands with a Beetle. Again, I ask, where's the objection, so long as he doesn't want me to do it, or any other fellow in the Form. What's the use of making such an awful smoke?" "I think we'd better truss him with Waterman," suggested Newall. "That's better than being feathered anyhow," retorted Waterman coolly. "Come, what's to be done? We can't stay here all night," said Hasluck. "Leveson will be up presently with his stop-watch." "We oughtn't to have a fellow like Percival in the school," Parfitt commented. "The thing is how to get rid of him. We can't go up to Weevil and ask that he shall be turned out. And we can't do what we'd like to do--kick him out." "No, we can't very well do that," struck in Newall. "There's only one way." "What's that?" cried four or five in chorus. "Make it too warm for the school to hold him." "No, no; don't do that," came in quick, tense tones from Stanley. "I wouldn't like to be one to drive Percival from Garside." "Nor I," added Waterman, with unusual emphasis for him. "You!" retorted Newall contemptuously; "you don't count. Moncrief does. What's your objection, Moncrief?" "Percival was once my friend," came the sad answer. "Friend!" was the scornful reply. CHAPTER XXIV THE RAFT ON THE RIVER From this time every effort was made to make Paul's life at Garside unendurable. The dead set against him extended from the Fifth Form downwards. The views which Newall had expressed with so much force on the night he had been feathered reigned supreme throughout the school. It was felt that Paul had no place there, and that as he would not go of his own free will, it was the bounden duty of all of them to follow Newall's advice, and drive him from it. So the war against him was carried on--not so much openly as secretly--by every petty means that could be devised. Stanley, to his credit, took no part in this secret warfare against Paul. He had still some affection for him; but though he took no part in it, he made no effort to check it. The fact was that he was getting more and more under the thumb of Newall and Parfitt every day. Even Hibbert seemed to have deserted him. At any rate, Paul saw but little of him at this time, and when he did see him, the boy only greeted him with a wan, frightened smile, as though he were afraid to speak. Waterman was about the only one who showed no change of manner towards him. He was still quite friendly in his lazy fashion. It was he who had first given the hint to Paul of the movement on foot against him. "I may as well put you on your guard, Percival," he said, on the day following Newall's declaration against Paul. "You've put up the backs of all the Form, and a lot of fellows outside it. They're going for you. They mean driving you from Garside." "I thought something was on foot. Thanks for telling me." "Oh, you'd have soon found out, you know, without my telling you. But you needn't give me away. I only just mention it so that you may know what's in the wind. Don't worry. It's not worth it." With this characteristic piece of advice Waterman left him. "Trying to drive me from the school," Paul repeated to himself. "Well, they may try, and beat me in the long run, but they won't find it easy. 'Be ye stedfast, unmovable.' By God's help I'll try to be true to the school motto." Having come to that determination, Paul set his teeth hard, and put his back to the wall. And so, though scarcely a day passed without bringing some fresh insult or tyranny, he still held firm to the position he had taken up--to the resolve he had made with himself and his God. It must be admitted, however, that the cup was sometimes very near to overflowing. His lot might have been easier to bear had he received some answer to the letter he had written to Mr. Moncrief; but as day followed day without any response, it seemed to him that Mr. Moncrief disdained writing to him, or did not think his letter worth answering. He came to the conclusion that Stanley must have written to his uncle, telling him what had happened at the sand-pit, and the feeling against Paul at the school, and so had poisoned his mind against him. Once or twice Paul thought of writing to the one friend who never failed him--his mother--and unburdening his breast to her; but the thought only came to him to be dismissed. It would only make her miserable. She had suffered enough in the past without being worried with his petty troubles at school. So he determined to stand alone--to fight out the battle by himself. Things were at this pass when an event happened which caused some stir at Garside. About a mile from the school ran the river. Its course lay in picturesque variety through peaceful pastoral country, cornfields, and orchards. One part of it was spanned by an old wooden bridge. This bridge had become so dilapidated by time and wear that the county justices had decided that it was dangerous for traffic. So to prevent the possibility of an accident, it was decided to pull it down, and replace it with a new one. Accordingly, the bridge was pulled down, and a new one begun. To aid in this task, a raft was used by the workmen in crossing the river. Now Plunger and his companions in the Third Form were deeply interested in the work that was going on at the river, but what interested Plunger most of all was the raft. It seemed to him that he would like to live upon that raft. What could be more delightful than gliding up and down the stream on it for ever. Then he thought of the many adventures that had happened on rafts--of the many shipwrecked passengers that had been saved on them. "Wish I had one of my own," he remarked to Harry, as the two stood watching the men crossing the stream one half-holiday. "Wouldn't it be jolly fun?" "Very," answered Harry, who, fired by Plunger's enthusiasm, began to share his longing. It should be mentioned that Plunger's attitude towards Harry had changed since the night when Newall had been feathered in mistake for Baldry. To use the phrase of the Third--"Moncrief minor had scored," and Plunger never respected anybody till they had succeeded in scoring over him--in other words, beaten him at his own game. Since then he had begun to tolerate Harry, and receive him on something like a footing of equality. "Those fellows," went on Plunger, nodding his head in the direction of the workmen on the raft, "are so beastly selfish." "How, Freddy?" "Well, I tried to get on that raft when it was lying idle the other day; but they commenced shouting at me like mad. I wasn't doing any harm." "Of course not." "If they'd been using it, it'd have been a different thing; but they weren't. So why couldn't they have let me cross the river on it--eh?" "I don't see why. They ought to have been glad to. They didn't know the honour they were losing. Now, if you'd only have told 'em who you were----" "Shut up!" cried Plunger, pinching Harry's arm. "But, I say, couldn't we just have some lovely games, if we only had a raft like that?" "Lovely," assented Harry. Here was silence between them for some moments, as they watched the raft and the men upon it with envious eyes. "Duffers!" exclaimed Plunger, at length giving expression to his feelings. "Don't take on so, Freddy." "Can't help it--duffers!" repeated Plunger, with still greater emphasis. Silence again, broken by Harry. "Would you really like to go on that raft, Freddy!" "Stow poking fun." "I'm not poking fun, I'm quite serious. Seems to me that if we really wanted to go on that raft, and really made up our minds to it, we ought to be able to manage it." "How?" came the eager question. "Easy enough if we go the right way, and don't make a mess of it, like Newall did that night when he walked into the Forum." "We're not talking about the Forum," said Plunger quickly, giving Harry another pinch. "We're talking about rafts--that raft," pointing to the one on the river. "And it's that raft I'm talking about. Have you ever noticed what happens on a Saturday?" "Many things happen on a Saturday; but what is the one thing that happens in particular?" "The workmen on the bridge leave off exactly as the clock strikes twelve--a little bit sooner if they can manage it. Never later." "Oh, yes; they're very punctual at leaving off. But what's that to do with the raft?" "A good deal. They always leave the raft tied up under the bridge. What would be easier than to untie it, and there you are." "Harry, you're a genius--a reg'lar genius!" cried Plunger, bringing his hand down on Harry's back. "It never sprouted out like that when you were at Gaffer Quelch's. It's come on since you've been at Garside. I must have helped it." Plunger had undoubtedly helped in the development of what he was pleased to term Harry's "genius," but whether altogether to the advantage of Harry time alone could show. "You helped it, Freddy! The only help you give is helping Number One. You ought to have belonged to the help-myself society. You'd have been just the fellow for the president." Plunger kicked Harry, and Harry returned the compliment; then their eyes went to the river again, and the raft, which was just getting under way again to cross to the other side. "Those duffers don't know how to use a raft," said Harry contemptuously, after he had been watching the workmen for some moments. "Of course they don't. That's the worst of being landlubbers. Wish we could only take them in hand and show them." "One of 'em ought to be wearing a suit of goatskins and things of that sort, with a great cap on his head, with the hair on the outside to shoot off the rain if it came on," said Harry thoughtfully. "Like Robinson Crusoe, you mean?" "Like Robinson Crusoe. That slim fellow with the black hair would do for Friday, and the others could be Indians--if they only knew how to do things properly; but they don't." "They don't," repeated Plunger emphatically. "My, if we only had the working of that raft, Harry, we'd make things hum!" It was tantalizing to watch the men, so they turned away with visions of what it would be possible to accomplish if they only had possession of the raft. They could discover a desert island on the other side of the river, pitch their tent on it, and do "lots of things." Full of these splendid visions, they walked along in silence, each busy with his own thoughts. "I think we can work it, Harry," Plunger at length remarked. "Work what?" "That Crusoe idea. We can get the raft next Saturday, and easily peg out a desert island on the other side of the river. I shan't want to dress up much. I've got a ragged jacket which'll be near enough for skins, and a soft felt which I can cut round the brim with Mrs. Trounce's scissors. That'll do for the hat." "Whose hat?" "Crusoe's hat, of course." "And who's going to wear it?" "Who's going to wear it?" Plunger's eyebrows disappeared into the roots of his hair in amazement at the question. "I am, of course!" "You mean that you're going to be Crusoe?" "Of course!" And Plunger's eyebrows remained so high up in the roots of his hair at the bare idea of anybody else playing the part that it seemed as though they would never come down again. "Well, but where do I come in?" "You can be Friday or an Indian." "And make myself black, and go about without any shoes and socks on, and get thorns in my feet, and--and things like that. No, Freddy; no, I don't! We'll change parts. I'll be Crusoe; you be Friday. You look more like a savage than I do." Plunger did not seem altogether pleased with the compliment, for he brought his knuckles down on Harry's head; but Harry was not quite the meek boy he was when he first came to Garside, so he returned the compliment, with interest. Then Plunger tried by cajolery to induce him to let him be Crusoe, and satisfy himself with the part of Friday, but Harry remained firm. "I first thought of it," he argued, "and I ought to have first choice. If we're going on that raft, I'm going as Crusoe, Freddy." Plunger preserved a gloomy silence for some moments; then he suddenly lifted his head, and his eyes sparkled. "I've got it. Why shouldn't there be two Crusoes?" "Two Crusoes! You and I, Freddy?" "Yes." Harry had never heard of two Crusoes existing on the desert island at one and the same time, but he didn't see why there shouldn't be. It would be more up to date. Besides it solved the difficulty, so he promptly consented. "But, who'll be Man Friday?" "Oh, we'll make the Camel Man Friday. He'll do splendidly." "The Camel" was the cruel nickname it will be remembered that Newall had given to Hibbert. Unfortunately, a name like that sticks, and it had stuck to Hibbert. CHAPTER XXV ON A VOYAGE OF ADVENTURE Moncrief minor and Plunger, having decided that they would improve upon Defoe's famous story and introduce two Crusoes into their forthcoming adventures instead of one, and having further decided that Hibbert should be Man Friday, it only remained to put their project into execution as soon as possible. A little way down the river, on the opposite side to that on which the raft was usually moored, was a plantation. It had a thick growth of furze and bushes, and save for the rabbits and squirrels, was quite desolate during the winter. What better place could be selected for the desert island? "Just the ticket," said Plunger, rubbing his hands, after he and Harry had explored the plantation with a view to their forthcoming enterprise. "Couldn't have been better if it had been built for us. We must be careful, though, and not let old Baldhead and the others know anything about it. They'll all want to cut in--Sedgefield, Bember, and the rest. I know them. Two Crusoes are quite enough at one time, don't you think?" Harry quite agreed with Plunger. In fact, he was rather doubtful whether two weren't too many--too many by one. But he didn't hint it to Plunger, for fear of bringing up the old dispute. "Have you sounded the Camel?" Plunger asked presently. "Not yet; but I don't think he'll mind, except for one thing." "What's that?" "Having his face blacked. He's sure to object to that." "But he needn't know anything about it till we get him over in the plantation; then he can kick and squeal as much as he likes. It won't matter. Let's hunt him up now." The two thereupon went in search of Hibbert. When they found him, Harry informed him in glowing language of their project for the coming Saturday. "And just by way of a little treat we thought we'd take you with us," said Plunger, as Harry concluded his explanation. "It'll be fine fun. When we get on the desert island we can have splendid adventures!" "Yes, yes; it'll be fine fun, as you say; but I'd rather not," answered Hibbert, for whom the river had little attraction. He somehow feared it. "I'll give way to some of the others." "But you're not going to give way. You're too fond of taking a back seat. You never have any fun; the other fellows have plenty. It's a jolly shame!" exclaimed Plunger, waxing indignant. "It isn't right, is it, Harry?" "No, it isn't," Harry promptly assented. "I don't see why the Camel shouldn't have as much fun as the rest of us." "But--but I don't want it. I'm quite content." "Ah, that's it. You're too content; but we're not. We mean making things better for you. It's nearly time some alteration was made. Baldry, Sedgefield, and the others would never think of giving you a bit of pleasure. They're too selfish--aren't they, Harry?" "Awfully!" "So we're leaving them out of it, and you're coming with us instead, Hibbert. We'll have a good time, I can tell you." Plunger spoke with so much earnestness, and was backed up by Harry with no less earnestness, that Hibbert really thought that their sole object in taking him with them on the raft was to give him "a bit of pleasure." It was perfectly clear also that they would take no denial; so Hibbert, making a virtue of necessity, reluctantly consented. "Whatever you do don't let out what we're going to do to the other fellows," was Plunger's parting injunction, "or they'll be eating their heads off with envy." Nevertheless, in spite of Plunger's injunction, the secret leaked out. Indeed, it would have been an astonishing thing if it hadn't, for the proposed adventure on the raft had taken such complete possession of the mind of Plunger, that he could think of little else. He dreamt about it, and talked it over with Harry at every opportunity. In addition to this, they had been seen carrying parcels in the direction of the plantation. The long-looked-for Saturday at length came. It had been agreed between the two confederates that, so as to avoid suspicion, Plunger should stroll up to the bridge just before the hour the men left off work, and that Harry should arrive on the scene a few minutes later with Hibbert, from another direction. "If anybody's about they won't suspect anything," said Plunger. "We shall meet as if by accident, and keep out of the way till the road's clear." Precisely as arranged, Plunger strolled up to the old bridge, which by this time was almost demolished. The workmen had made fast the raft to a stake at the side of the river, and, having received their wages, hastened off at the stroke of twelve. No one heeded Plunger. A few minutes later, Harry came up with Hibbert, who was trying to look as happy as possible under the circumstances, but was nevertheless far from comfortable. The river always seemed so cruel to him--so treacherous. And somehow it had seemed more cruel, more treacherous, since Paul had told him the story of his father's death. "All serene, Harry," cried Plunger. "The road's clear. We've got it all to ourselves." "That's good," said Harry. "We're in luck's way. Let's make hay while the sun shines. Wait for us on the towing-path, Hibbert. We'll soon be alongside." Leaving Hibbert on the towing-path, the two boys got on the raft, and proceeded to untie it from the stake to which it was attached. This did not take them long, and, having secured a punting-pole, they soon brought the raft to where Hibbert was awaiting them. "I'd--I'd rather not go," said the boy hesitating. "Don't talk rubbish. Get on. You don't mean to say you funk it?" To tell the truth, Hibbert did "funk it," though there seemed so little to fear; but he was, as we know, a nervous, timid boy. None the less, he always tried to disguise his feelings even to himself. "Funk--not a bit; but--but I'm never much help, and--and I thought I might be in the way. It's a jolly raft, isn't he!" he said, as he stepped on. "Jolly." Plunger pushed off and they went slowly down the river in the direction of the plantation. "It's smooth enough here, but what must it be like on the sea, eh?" asked Plunger, after an interval of silence. "Without any food or water and no sign of a sail." "Yes, famishing with hunger and casting lots which shall die," added Plunger cheerfully, glaring at Hibbert, as though he contemplated him for a victim. Hibbert, pale before, turned to an ashen hue. "Why, what's the matter, Camel? Don't you feel well? Seasick?" "I--I'm all right. Is--isn't it jolly?" answered Hibbert, with a feeble attempt at a smile. Though Hibbert was far from enjoying himself, in spite of trying to impress upon himself that he was, his companions were in their element. As they floated along the river, they imagined themselves to be adventurers, bent on discovery and deeds of heroism. All the same Harry began to feel that Plunger, as usual, was trying to take up the position of command, and make him play second fiddle. "I say, Freddy," he presently burst out, "isn't it time that I did a bit of punting?" "I'd like you to have a try, I really would; but it's not so easy as it looks. You've never done any punting, and you don't know how hard it is." "And what do you know about it? You've never done any of it till now. You're not going to gammon me, Freddy; so hand over the pole." As Plunger did not seem inclined to give up the pole, Harry caught hold of it, with the intention of enforcing his demands. As he did so, the raft swayed, and Hibbert, crying out in alarm, clutched Harry in turn to steady himself. "Don't be an ass, Harry," exclaimed Plunger hotly. "You'll have us over in a minute. We're not on dry land. We're not out for a picnic." "Give up the pole, then. We were to go halves--share and share alike. I know as much about punting as you do; so let me have a turn." "Put me on land," said Hibbert appealingly, fearing that a struggle would take place between the two boys. "Don't be such an awful funk, Camel," exclaimed Plunger roughly. "Let go, Harry. Don't play about on this bit of wood or over we go. I'm not insured, if you are. I said we'd go halves, and so we will. Let me finish punting to the plantation and you shall do the punting back." "You mean it?" "Of course I do." Satisfied with this promise, Harry let go the pole, much to the relief of Hibbert. The rest of the voyage was passed without further dispute, and in a little while they reached the plantation in safety. Having secured the raft, they made their way into the thicket. Hibbert timorously inquired where they were going. "We told you we were out for adventures," explained Plunger. "Harry and me are Crusoes--twins, you see." Hibbert nodded assent, but he could not help thinking that he had never seen twins who were so utterly unlike each other as the two before him. "You're to be Friday, Camel." "Friday--yes," Hibbert feebly assented. "Wha--what's he to do?" "He's got to discover us--the twin Crusoes." Hibbert thought that to balance things there ought to be a twin Friday, but he only repeated, "Twin Crusoes--yes." As he did so, he thought he heard a rustling among the bushes, as though some wild beast were crawling amongst them. He looked round with a shiver, but saw nothing. Plunger and Harry, too intent on their enterprise to hear anything, had been groping about in the thicket for something they had hidden there. Presently Plunger cried, "Got it!" He drew out a brown-paper parcel from its hiding-place as he spoke, while Harry explained as he did so: "This is to be a sort of dress rehearsal, you see. The next time we come we shall be able to do the thing properly." "Yes, we've only got the hats and Friday's wig, and the stuff for his face," went on Plunger, as he pitched a brimless felt hat to Harry and clapped one of similar design on his own head. "We mean having the skin coats next time. Here's your wig, Camel--Friday, I mean. Let's see how it fits." He took from the parcel a wig, which had been skilfully designed from a couple of fluffy woollen table mats, once the property of Mrs. Trounce. Pulling off Hibbert's cap, Plunger fixed this curiously fashioned wig on the boy's head. "Fits to a T. Doesn't it, Harry?" Harry nodded. "Wish we only had a looking-glass here so that you could see yourself in it, Camel," went on Plunger. "You only want painting up a bit, and there you are. Hold your face down while Moncrief puts on the artistic touches." Hibbert feebly protested. He didn't want his face painted. "Now, look here, Camel," said Plunger, giving his arm a twist which made him wince, "we're not going to hurt you; so don't be silly. Friday was a savage, you know, and savages don't go about with white faces, and yours is awfully white. Don't be silly, I say." Hibbert wriggled for a moment, but seeing that it was useless for him to struggle further, gave in with as good grace as possible. Harry at once went to work on his face. First of all greasing it, he next smeared it with burnt cork, until Hibbert was as black as a nigger. Thus blackened, and with the rudely fashioned wig as crown, Hibbert presented a curious appearance indeed. The two burst into laughter when they had finished. Their laughter seemed to echo through the plantation. Suddenly their laughter was checked. "Did you hear it? Strange, wasn't it?" said Plunger. Hibbert looked tremblingly round. Of a sudden an unearthly yell rent the air, and half a dozen dusky figures leapt from the bushes in the distance. Flourishing curiously-shaped weapons, very like tomahawks, they rushed, yelling and screaming, towards the bewildered boys. CHAPTER XXVI WHAT HAPPENED ON THE RAFT Hibbert, a picture of terror, turned and fled towards the river, and Plunger and Harry, imagining for the moment that they had been set upon by real savages, promptly followed his example. The dusky figures followed in pursuit, still yelling their outlandish cries. "Ka-pei, ka-pei! Houp, houp! O-jib-e-way! Koo-oo, koo-oo!" Hibbert ran as he had never run before in his life. Terror lent speed to his feet. He had got the start of his companions, so that they only drew up to him as he reached the river. "Quick--the raft!" shouted Plunger. "They'll be on us in a minute." It was the raft for which Hibbert was making. "Ka-pei, ka-pei! Houp, Houp! O-jib-e-way! Koo-oo, koo-oo!" The cries of the pursuers drew nearer and nearer. Hibbert reached the raft and leapt on it. "Undo the rope! I'll push off!" panted Plunger. Harry never thought of the promise Plunger had made--that he should punt the raft back. His only desire was that they should put the river between them and their pursuers as quickly as possible. In less than a moment he had undone the rope which bound the raft to the bank, and leapt to Plunger's side. Brief as the space of time, it had enabled the foremost of their pursuers to reach the bank. "Push off, Freddy," cried Harry. Plunger pushed off in desperation. Too late! The foremost of the pursuers had followed them on to the raft. Plunger could see the dusky face looking into his. The raft had floated a little way from the bank. With another unearthly cry three more of the savage-looking figures leapt on. The raft swayed ominously. Plunger made a wild endeavour to push further out into the stream. The raft lurched forward. There was a cry of horror, a splash, and the next moment three of the boys--Plunger, Hibbert, and one of "the savages"--were struggling in the water. The impetus given to the raft had taken it out into midstream, and when the three rose to the surface, it was at some distance from them. By the ducking in the water the paint of the "noble savage" was running down his face, and Plunger, in that terrible moment, recognized that it was Baldry. Plunger knew little of swimming. Fortunately, Baldry knew more of it than he did, and was able to clutch him by the arm and hold him up. But those on the raft saw with horror that they had floated right away from Hibbert, and that was he drowning before their eyes. Harry looked round for the punting-hole, in the hope that he might go to the aid of the drowning boy. Alas! Plunger had carried the pole with him when he had fallen into the river, and it was now floating down the stream at some distance from them. "The Camel's drowning!" gasped Harry. The boys on the raft saw that he was. They had caught sight of the white face as it rose for the second time to the surface. And they stood there, transfixed horrified, at the tragedy that was taking place before them. Unable to find the punting-pole, Harry would have leapt into the river, but Sedgefield, one of the "savages" who had jumped upon the raft, was just in time to clutch him by the arm and hold him back. "Look, Moncrief! That's Percival, isn't it?" Harry stood, trembling in every limb, on the edge of the raft, and followed the direction of Sedgefield's finger. Yes, Percival it was. Cut off from the games of his companions, left entirely to himself, he had brought out his rod and line to pass an hour or so angling. While thus occupied, he had heard the shouts and cries raised by the "savages" on the opposite bank. "What's wrong?" he asked himself, as he stood quite still and listened. The shouting grew louder; the yells more unearthly, and in a tongue, as it seemed to him, he had never heard before. Dropping his rod, he raced along the bank, just in time to to see from a distance the raft push off with the boys upon it, and the disaster that followed, as it floated further into the stream. He paused for an instant as he breathlessly watched the scene; then raced forward at full speed, flung off his jacket, waistcoat, and boots, and struck out, hand over hand, to where Hibbert was struggling in the water. Fortunately, Paul was a powerful swimmer. Even in his cradle his father had taken his little hand in his large one, and, while looking lovingly in his face, had said to the wife who sat beside him: "The son of a sea-dog, the son of a sea-dog! He must never know the fear of water." Alas! it was the cruel water which had carried off the father, but the son had grown up true to his wish--he had never known the fear of water. So he had become a bold and powerful swimmer. With a swift, sweeping side-stroke he reached Hibbert's side, just as he was sinking for the last time. Clutching the drowning boy by the hair, he held him up; then, turning on his back, he drew him to his chest, and, kicking out with his feet, soon reached the bank. Placing the boy gently on the turf, Paul gazed anxiously into his face. The eyes were closed; the lips ghastly blue; the heart seemed still. "Hibbert, Hibbert!" cried Paul, as he tried to restore animation. No answer came to his pleading cry. The eyes still remained closed. A big fear took possession of Paul. Had the eyes closed never to open more? Had help come when it was too late? Was the little chap dead? Notwithstanding the fear that seized him, he did not relax his efforts, and presently, to his great joy, the lids fluttered, then opened, and the eyes went up to his face. They were dazed, bewildered. Slowly a look of recognition came into them. "Per--Percival!" came in a feeble whisper from the lips; then the lids, as though exhausted by the effort they had made, closed again. Danger was not yet past, but the boy lived, and Paul, breathing more freely, looked round to see what had happened to the others. It had been a near thing with Baldry and Plunger. Baldry had supported Plunger for some time, but neither had been able to reach the raft or the bank; while those on the raft were unable to move to their assistance. The strength of both was, therefore, giving out rapidly. "Let go of me, Baldry. Take care of yourself!" gasped Plunger. "Shan't Freddy," answered Baldry feebly. "Sit tight!" Even in that terrible moment, with death looming grimly before him, Plunger smiled faintly. Baldry's advice seemed so ludicrous. Sit tight! What was he to sit tight on? They grew fainter every moment. "God, help us!" was the prayer that came from the heart of Baldry. Human help seemed to have failed them. So, at least, it seemed; but Paul, looking up from Hibbert at this moment, his heart gladdened at hearing his name, saw the dilemma in which they were placed--the peril in which they stood. Unless assistance soon reached them, they must go under. What was to be done? He could not see them drown before his eyes. Yet--yet, if he were to leave Hibbert, what would happen to him? It was true that he had opened his eyes and spoken, but perhaps that was only the last feeble flicker of the candle. Paul's hand went quickly to the boy's heart. It was still beating, though feebly. Again his eyes went to where Baldry and Plunger were making a desperate fight for life. Three lives were trembling in the balance. The prayer that had come from Baldry's lips a moment since came from Paul's. "God, help me! What am I to do?" He gave another swift glance into Hibbert's face. It seemed to smile at him, as though in answer to his prayer. "Go," it seemed to say. The next instant Paul plunged into the river, swimming towards the two boys, with the same swift stroke which had enabled him to reach Hibbert's side. As he cut through the water, his right hand struck against something. His fingers closed round it. It was the punting-pole that Plunger had lost, and which had been partly responsible for the accident. God had answered his prayer. He had helped him. It would have been impossible for him to have saved the two fast-drowning boys by his own unaided efforts. Now it was possible. "Catch hold!" he cried, as he directed one end of the pole to Baldry and Plunger. They eagerly gripped it; then, grasping the other end, Paul swam to shore. It was a strange freight he was towing--two human lives. And his heart seemed beating like the valve of a steam-tug as he reached the bank and pulled his freight ashore. "You're a brick--that's what you are, Percival!" were the first words that Plunger gasped, as he struggled, with the water dripping from him, up the bank. Baldry's eyes had gone to the still figure lying on the grass. "It's--it's the Camel! What--what's wrong with him?" he asked, as he stood gazing at the still form. "Is--is he dead?" "I hope not--I think not," said Paul, as he raised the slight figure in his arms. "I must leave you fellows to look after yourselves." So saying, holding Hibbert close to him, he hastened along the road that led to the school. Once or twice he paused to make sure that Hibbert's heart was beating. Yes; it was still beating, though feebly: having reassured himself, he hurried on again with his burden. The road seemed longer to him than it had ever been before; but at length he drew near, and his eyes went up to the first thing that a Garside boy usually looked to--the old flag. He could scarcely believe his eyes. Were they mocking him, or was he under a delusion? The flag did not seem to be flying there. "My eyes are playing tricks with me," he thought as he hurried breathless into the grounds. A few steps more and he met Stanley. He stopped and regarded Paul with surprise. He advanced a step, as though with the intention of speaking to him, but quickly changing his mind, went on his way. Paul clenched his teeth hard and staggered on with his burden. Luckily it was only a light one. Reaching the schoolhouse door, he met Waterman coming from it. "Percival! What are you fagging with there?" For once Waterman was genuinely roused. "An accident? Why, it's young Hibbert. What's happened?" "He's had a ducking in the river. Run for Dr. Clack--as quickly as you can." Waterman needed no second bidding. His natural indolence of manner, under which was hidden much more energy than people gave him credit for, vanished on the instant. He darted off at the top of his speed. Paul did not relinquish his burden till, under the direction of the matron, he had placed it on a bed in the sick dormitory. "A doctor must be fetched," said the matron, as Hibbert's eyes remained closed, in spite of her efforts to bring him back to consciousness. "Waterman's gone for Dr. Clack." "That's right. The poor little fellow's in a bad way. Oh, you boys--you boys!" came in a sigh from the matron's lips. "Always in mischief. Who pushed him into the river?" "Nobody pushed him. He fell in, so far as I could see." Paul did not tell her that two more Gargoyles had fallen into the river at the same time, for fear of alarming her still more. "Why didn't you stop him from playing about on the river? You're old enough to know better," said Mrs. Trounce wrathfully. Paul stood silent under this rebuke. He had not explained all the circumstances of the accident--so far, at least, as he knew them--for fear of implicating the other boys. He had caught a glimpse of the savage "get-up" of Baldry and his companions, and the black stains on Hibbert's face, which had only been partially washed away by the water. He guessed, therefore, that there was more in the accident than at first met the eye. "If he dies we shall have the police here a-makin' all sorts of inquiries," continued the angry matron. "And I shouldn't wonder if they took you off to the lock-up, and brought you up before a judge and jury. And serve you right, ses I. You elder boys want a lesson. Instead of stopping the little fellow from playing on the river, you encouraged him, I expect. I know the way you big boys have. You use the paws of the little ones to pull out the roast chestnuts. It's disgraceful, I call it." Thus the matron poured out the vials of her wrath on Paul's head, while she busied herself at the same time in doing all she could to restore the patient to consciousness. Her words fell unheeded on Paul's ears. He was watching the face of Hibbert, and wondering whether the eyes would ever open again, and look up to him as they had looked up to him on that day when he had put his hand timidly on his shoulder and whispered: "You look so wretched and miserable I could not help coming to you. You're not angry with me, are you?" CHAPTER XXVII THE OLD FLAG As the thought went through Paul's mind, the door opened, and Mr. Weevil entered. To Paul's wonder the master fell on his knees beside the bed, and, taking Hibbert's hand in his, murmured: "Tim, Tim, what have they done to you? Speak, Tim." The cold nature of the master seemed to have melted as he looked at the unconscious boy. Paul had never heard him call Hibbert by his Christian name before. The ashen lips were moving tremulously. The blinking eyes were fixed tenderly on the boy's face, and--was Paul dreaming?--he thought he saw a tear roll down the master's cheek. "Why did I leave you to yourself? Speak, Tim, speak," came the pleading tones. For once Mr. Weevil's self-control had given way. He was strangely moved. Paul was too moved himself at the time to take much notice, but he recalled every incident in that strange scene after. Then, as no answer came to his appeal, the master seemed to wander in his talk, and babbled words in an unknown tongue. He was still kneeling by the bed, talking in this way, when Dr. Clack, the school doctor, entered. His face remained very grave as he examined his patient. "It's been a very near thing with him," he said, when he had finished his examination; "but with careful nursing he may pull round." Paul heard the news with a thankful heart, for he had begun to fear that the case was hopeless. Mr. Weevil had now quite recovered his self-possession, and, leaving the patient in the hands of the doctor and the matron, beckoned Paul to follow him to his room. On entering it he closed the door, and questioned Paul minutely as to the cause of the accident. Paul explained to him what he had seen, the more readily because the little he had seen threw no particular blame on any one. "And you don't know how it happened?" "No, sir; I haven't the least idea." "You weren't in any way concerned in it?" demanded Mr. Weevil, suddenly opening his half-closed eyes and fixing them on Paul. Paul felt indignant. He had made as little as possible of his share in rescuing Hibbert; and as a result the master seemed to have a lurking suspicion that he was in league in some way with the boys who had caused the accident. "No, sir, I was in no way concerned in it," he flashed back. "It was quite by chance that I was at the river-side this afternoon." "Well, the matter must be further inquired into. It is quite certain that there is something that needs explanation." "I know nothing about that, sir; but if you've no more questions to ask me, I'd like to change my things." Paul's clothes had nearly dried on him. He had taken no heed of himself in thinking of Hibbert; but now that Hibbert was in bed, and in the hands of those who could take care of him, he began to think a little of his own condition, which was not altogether so comfortable as might have been desired. "I'm sorry. I really had forgotten that you were in damp clothes. Why didn't you mention it before? You must change them at once." Mr. Weevil seemed really sorry that he had not given a thought to Paul's condition before. Paul hastened off to change his damp cloth for dry ones. While he was thus engaged, Plunger and Baldry entered for the same purpose. Otherwise they seemed none the worse for the cold bath. Plunger, in fact had got on good terms with himself again, and was as perky as ever. "I should have punted across the river all right if it hadn't been for Hibbert," he explained. "The scream he gave threw me off my stroke. It was jolly good of you all the same to come to us, Percival. We shan't forget it in a hurry--shall we, Baldry?" "No," was Baldry's emphatic answer. "By the by, how is Hibbert going on?" "I was just going to ask the same thing. I would rather have gone under myself than that he should. Has the doctor been to him?" Plunger spoke with unusual earnestness. "Yes, Dr. Clack's been to him. He's with him now." "And what does he say?" "He says that it's been a near thing, but with careful nursing he may pull round." Plunger paused with one arm in the sleeve of the jacket he was putting on, and sat down on the side of the bed. He was beginning to realize how near the Crusoe expedition had been to a tragedy--nay, the danger was not yet over. Silence fell on the room for some moments. Each was busy with his own thoughts. "I haven't yet heard how it all happened," Paul at length inquired. Plunger told him the origin of the "Crusoe expedition," and all that had happened up to the moment of the accident. "I don't know anything about the savages that boarded us on the raft. Baldry can tell you that part," he concluded. "Oh, we found out all about the expedition, and didn't like being left out of it. We thought that we'd have a cut in on our own account. So Sedgefield, Bember, Viner, and myself got down to the plantation before Plunger, Moncrief minor, and Hibbert reached it on the raft. While they landed and got ready for their part, we got ready for ours. What was the use of Crusoe without the noble savages? So we got up as savages, and frightened the life out of Plunger and the other two by swooping down on 'em just like Indians would, you know." "You didn't frighten me, I tell you," protested Plunger. "Of course not; but Crusoe, when he first saw savages, never sprinted along half so quickly as you did, I'll warrant! Greased lightning wasn't in it with you, Plunger." Plunger did not answer, but diligently set to work getting his other arm into the sleeve of his coat. "Well, but what's become of the other fellows on the raft--Moncrief, Sedgefield, and the others?" inquired Paul. "Oh, they were still on the raft, floating gaily along, when we left. Goodness knows when they would get ashore," says Baldry. "It's a bit unfortunate, you see, for none of the fellows now left on the raft understand anything about punting," put in Plunger. "It's rather a pity I couldn't have got back to them." "It's just that that makes me feel easy. There's a good chance of their pulling through, now you're not with them, Plunger," was Baldry's ungracious response. "Why, here they are!" As he was speaking, in fact, three of the four entered--Bember, Sedgefield, and Harry Moncrief. After they had spent some time on the raft, drifting aimlessly on the river, a boatman had towed them ashore. Fixing the raft in its place by the bridge, they had returned in all haste to the school, anxious to know what had happened to their companions. When they had learned all particulars, Sedgefield exclaimed: "I don't care what those Fifth Form fellows say or think, but will you take my hand, Percival?" Paul willingly gripped the hand extended to him. Bember and the others, with the exception of Harry, followed suit. Harry struggled with himself for a moment. He could not help remembering, in spite of his effort to forget it, that Paul was responsible for the thrashing that his cousin had received at the hands of a Beetle, and that he had seen him shaking hands with the same obnoxious creature. Yet what could have been nobler, Harry told himself, than the way in which, at the risk of his own life, Paul had gone to the rescue of Hibbert, and had returned a few minutes later to save Plunger and Baldry? He had witnessed it all from the raft, with his heart in his mouth. Yes, it was a noble deed. He had never seen a nobler. What was the defeat of Stanley--the wound of his pride--compared with it? Instinctively his hand went out to Paul as the other hands had done, when Viner entered the room. "Have you heard the news?" he questioned, greatly excited. "The news! What news?" demanded Sedgefield. "The school flag. It's gone!" "Gone!" they echoed, as with one voice. Paul's mind went back with a rush to when he had entered the grounds with Hibbert in his arms. His eyes had not deceived him, then. The flag had really gone. "Nonsense!" cried Sedgefield. "Not much nonsense about it. If you don't believe me, you'd better go and look for yourself." The intelligence was so remarkable, that Plunger and Harry raced into the grounds. A minute later they returned. "Viner's quite right. It's gone," they exclaimed in a breath. "But how--where--when?" questioned Sedgefield. "Who has taken it?" "No one knows. It must have happened while we were on the river, so we could know nothing about it. Somebody must have stolen up the turret stair and got on to the roof. That's the only possible way it could be done. The senior Forms are in a rare wax over it." "I should think so," burst out Plunger. "What fellow can rest easy now that our flag's been hauled down? I only wish that I had hold of the one who did it." "You'd give him a lesson in punting, wouldn't you, Freddy?" observed Baldry, with a wink at those around him. Plunger glared at Baldry. He would have brought his knuckles down on his head, only he remembered what Baldry had done for him. "Seriously," said Sedgefield, "it can't have walked. There's not a fellow in Garside who would have pulled down the old flag, even for a joke; I'm certain of that." "And I." "And I." "And I," came in a chorus. "A Beetle must have sneaked in. It must be the work of a Beetle." "That's what I've been thinking," said Bember. "It's only one of those cads could have done a sneakish trick like that." "Supposing it is a Beetle, which of them could have done it? Which of them could have made his way into the school without being seen, and then got to the door in the turret?" asked Baldry. "Mellor knows all about the building. He could easily describe the way to any of the Beetles," said Viner. "That champion of theirs--Wyndham--has made us eat enough dirt already. He made our picked man turn tail"--every eye went to Paul as Viner spoke with bitterness--"and Moncrief eat dirt. Now we've lost the flag. Really, we're getting on. We can't sink much lower." The atmosphere in the dormitory was getting oppressive. Every one felt uncomfortable. That allusion to Paul was true enough. He had turned away, like a frightened cur, from Wyndham; but who could accuse him of being a coward after what had happened that day? It was altogether inexplicable. Baldry was the first to speak. "You know what has happened this afternoon, Viner. Percival saved my life, and you're not going to fling mud at him while I'm standing by." "And I say ditto to Baldry," blustered Plunger. "Oh, I deserve it," said Paul, for the first time breaking silence. "It's true--every word that Viner said. I did turn tail. It was the act of a coward. And Stanley Moncrief suffered through me, and through me all the school has eaten dirt. But if the school has suffered through me, through me it shall be lifted up again. If the Beetles have taken our flag, by God's help I will get it back again, and again it shall fly in its old place on the turret. If I fail----" But Baldry cut him short, and shouted: "Three cheers for Percival!" The cheers were given very heartily, though Viner took little part in the cheering; but ere the last cheer had died away, a messenger came from the sick-room. Hibbert was still in a very critical condition, but he had recovered consciousness, and was asking for Paul. CHAPTER XXVIII HIBBERT ASKS STRANGE QUESTIONS The message brought back the minds of the boys with painful abruptness to the struggle of a far different kind which was taking place in the sick-room. In the loss of the school flag they had forgotten, for the time being, the crisis through which Hibbert was passing. It was no time for cheering; it was a time of sadness--Paul, at least, felt so as he obeyed the message, and made his way to the sick-room. "Percival," came in a low, faint voice, as he entered. The face of the sick boy turned to him. Pale at all times, it now seemed bloodless, as white as the pillow upon which it rested. It seemed, too, to have shrunk, while the eyes had grown larger, and shone with a light which Paul had never seen in them before. "You were the first one he asked for when he came to his senses," said Mrs. Trounce, as Paul stepped softly to the bedside. "I think he's a bit better now; aren't you?" "Much better, thank you," said the boy, with a painful attempt to smile at her. Then the bright eyes went again to Paul's face and rested there. "I'm glad to hear that, Hibbert," said Paul, taking the thin hand in his. "You must make up your mind to get off that bed as soon as possible, mustn't he, Mrs. Trounce?" "Just what I tell him," said the matron, cheerfully, for she knew the value of cheerfulness on the spirits of a patient. "If he makes up his mind to it, he'll soon be about again." "It's astonishing what we can do when we set our teeth hard, and go for a thing," continued Paul, adopting her cheerful tone and manner. "That's what you did when you came to me and saved my life. Oh, Percival, it was terrible!" And the thin hand went to the eyes with a gesture of pain. "Terrible! Hooking you out of that river? That's what I call beastly ingratitude. I think it's one of the best things I ever did in my life." "No, no," cried the boy quickly; "don't think me ungrateful. I couldn't bear that. You don't think me ungrateful?" "Of course not. It's only my stupid way of putting things. All you've got to do now is to forget about the river, and everything connected with it. You're now on dry land--in a nice, warm, comfortable bed, where you needn't trouble about anything except getting well again." "Are the other fellows all right--Plunger and Moncrief, I mean?" "Right? Rather! Going stronger than ever, especially Plunger." "I'm glad of that. And--and the savages. Who were they?" asked Hibbert, with a shudder. "Can't you guess?" smiled Paul. "Nobody very dreadful. Three or four of the fellows of your Form--Bember, Baldry, Sedgefield, Viner." "I might have guessed it; but then I'm not like other boys. I'm such a coward--coward. I've fought against it so hard, but I can't get over it. I've tried to be brave--as brave as you are----" "Hush! Don't talk of bravery. You're forgetting the sand-pit. Don't put me on stilts, for I could never walk in them. We're just what God makes of us. There are plenty of thorns and thistles about, heaps of 'em; but not many sensitive plants. That's what you are Hibbert--a beautiful, sensitive plant." "Ah, you don't know what I am. If only I could tell you--if only I could tell you. You would hate me--hate me. Yes, Percival--hate me. You can call me a beautiful, sensitive plant, while all the time I'm a beastly hypocrite. Oh, why didn't you let me die--why didn't you let me go down in the river? Why did you save me?" He spoke with a sudden outburst of energy, raising himself, in his feverish excitement on his elbow. "Come, come! Master Percival will have to leave you, if you take on that way," said the matron. "Yes, I think I'd better go now and come again to-morrow," said Paul, alarmed at this sudden outburst, which he took to be a slight touch of delirium. "Don't leave me, Percival--don't leave me just yet!" pleaded the boy. "I--I was forgetting myself. I'll be quieter if you'll stay with me a little longer." The thin fingers slipped into Paul's hand again, and clung to it tightly. "I'll stay with you a little longer, if you'll just do what I tell you." "Yes, yes. What?" "Just close your eyes and try to sleep." Hibbert obeyed him implicitly. He closed his eyes, as though to sleep, but still held fast to Paul's hand. In a few moments the pressure relaxed, and he seemed to be really sleeping. "I'll watch over him for a bit, if you like," whispered Paul to the matron. Mrs. Trounce looked at her patient. He seemed tranquil enough now, and as she had other duties to attend to, she gladly availed herself of Paul's offer. "I'll be back as soon as I can," she whispered as she went out. She hadn't been gone more than ten minutes before Hibbert's eyes opened again. "Still here, Percival? It's very kind of you." Then, looking round: "Where's matron?" "Gone out for a bit. I've promised to look after you. Do you want anything?" "No--except you. Matron's really gone?"--looking round again. "What a suspicious chap you're getting!" smiled Paul. "Do you think she's hiding somewhere?" "I'm glad she's gone, Percival, because I wanted to speak to you--alone." "But you promised to sleep." "Well, I've kept my promise. I've had quite a long doze." "Very long--ten minutes." "I can't sleep longer till I've said what I've got to say. Doesn't it say somewhere in the Bible that we ought to confess our sins?" Paul could now see clearly enough that there was something troubling Hibbert, and that it would only increase the trouble if he were to refuse to answer him. So he answered: "Of course it does. Let me see--you must know the words as well as I do--'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.'" "Yes, those are the words I was trying to think of. I remember them quite well now. The water from the river seems to have got into my brain, and things aren't quite so clear to me now as they used to be, you see." "That will come all right presently, and things will be quite as clear to you as ever they were. But you mustn't worry, or else they won't." "I can't help it; but I shan't worry so much when what is on my mind is off it." "Shall I send for Mr. Weevil?" "No, no," answered the boy quickly; "it's you I want to speak to. Don't leave me." Paul did not move. He kept his place beside the bed, though he had no wish to hear any confession. He guessed what it was. Some boyish freak or escapade, magnified into undue proportion by the sensitive boy now that he was so weak. "I won't leave you, but if you've got anything to say, I'm not the fellow to say it to. There's One can do you a great deal more good than I can, Hibbert. Just confess to Him when you say your prayers to-night. He'll help you a lot more than I can." "Supposing I have done that, Percival. Supposing I did it when I closed my eyes a little while ago; and supposing even then a voice seemed whispering in my ear, 'If you want peace, if you want to meet your mother in heaven, act the hypocrite no longer. Speak to Percival.' What then?" "Then I should say use your own judgment. Do what seems best." Hibbert closed his eyes for a moment, as though he were trying to decide within himself what was best. At length he opened them again. "Do you remember that afternoon when I came to you in the writing-room and told you Mr. Travers wished to speak to you?" "Quite well. Nearly all the fellows had deserted me but you. I was wretched." "You looked it. You gave me a letter to post. Do you remember that?" "Yes," answered Paul shortly. He remembered it but too well. It was the letter he had written to Mr. Moncrief, to which that gentleman had not deigned to answer. "When I came back to you in the writing-room you were tracing names on the blotting-pad. I caught sight of one--Zuker. You noticed that I was surprised at seeing it, and asked me if I knew anybody of that name. I told you that I did. That I once knew a boy of that name when I was at school in Germany. And then you told me something I'm never likely to forget--never likely to forget to my dying hour. You may think it strange, but the words came suddenly to my ears when I fell off the raft into the river." "Indeed! What was it I told you?" "You told me that it was through a man of the name of Zuker that your father lost his life." "Yes, that's true enough. So it was--Israel Zuker. What about it?" "What about it!" Hibbert made a painful effort to laugh. "Why, Percival----" He stopped abruptly, as the door suddenly opened, and Mr. Weevil entered. "What, Percival! You here?" exclaimed the master. "Where is Mrs. Trounce?" "Hibbert wanted me to sit by him, and I'm taking her place for a short time. She'll be back presently, sir." "Are you feeling better?" asked the master, as he turned from Paul to the patient. "Oh, yes, much better. It's done me good to have Percival here." "I'm glad to hear it." Mr. Weevil's hand went gently, lovingly over the boy's brow, and he watched him anxiously through his half-closed eyes. Paul recalled the master's grief when he first saw the boy after the accident, and other little traits of kindness--traits which had shown him that Mr. Weevil was not altogether the stern, harsh man he had one time thought him. None the less, he was sorry that he had entered the room at that moment. Hibbert had awakened his curiosity. What was it that was weighing on his mind? What had he to tell him about the man Zuker? He wished Mr. Weevil had kept from the room a bit longer. Paul waited, hoping that he would go out. But the master did not move from the position he had taken up at the bedside, and his hand continued to move caressingly over the boy's forehead. After a minute or two's silence he turned to Paul. "You've had your fair spell of watching, Percival. I'll take your place till Mrs. Trounce returns. Hibbert looks very flushed and feverish. I'm afraid he's been speaking too much." What could Paul say? He had no alternative but to obey. Hibbert's eyes followed him as he went out. "What was it he had to tell me, I wonder?" Paul asked himself, as he passed along the corridor. It was a long time before he slept that night. His mind kept travelling back over the many events of a singularly eventful day. And when he at last dozed off to sleep, he could hear the voice of Hibbert sounding a long way off. "Oh, why didn't you let me die? Why didn't you let me go down in the river? Why did you save me? Don't leave me, Percival--don't leave me. I'll be quieter if you stay with me a little longer." Then the voice died away and all was blank. CHAPTER XXIX AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR ARRIVES AT GARSIDE Two things, outside the ordinary school routine, occupied attention on the morrow. The first was the adventures which had so nearly cost Hibbert his life; the second the loss of the school flag. The report as to the condition of Hibbert was neither good nor bad. There was no improvement, but neither had he gone back. His condition, in fact, was just what it had been the night before. The loss of the flag caused the greatest excitement. The masters held a meeting about it, but nothing was done. The Sixth Form held a meeting about it, but nothing was done--for the simple reason that nothing could be done. So far there was not the slightest clue as to what had become of it. It had disappeared just as mysteriously as the pages torn from the Black Book. But in one thing there was a manifest change. A manifest improvement took place in the school's attitude towards Paul. Whereas previously nearly all the school was opposed to him, the greater proportion of the Garsiders now came over to his side with a swing; but his own Form, with the exception of Waterman, still held aloof. He received a communication from Stanley, however, through his cousin. "Stanley's sorry that he did not lend you a helping hand when he met you with Hibbert yesterday," said Harry. "He did not dream that anything serious had happened." Paul had felt it even more than he dared admit to himself that Stanley had not come forward on the previous day and given him a helping hand when he was struggling along with Hibbert. "How could he dream that anything serious had happened unless he inquired?" he asked, with some bitterness. "Did he really send that message?" "Really." "It's very kind of him. When you next see him say how obliged I am. It's nice to find people so thoughtful, though it may be a little late in the day." Harry felt uncomfortable. He could detect the accent of bitterness underlying the words. "Tell you what, Percival, I wish you and Stan were friends again, like you used to be. It's all through that beastly Beetle, Wyndham. I wish some one had stepped on him and squashed him first." "I don't. I can admire a plucky fellow when I see one, even though he happens to be a Beetle." Harry opened his eyes, and stared at Paul. Paul, annoyed at the second-hand message he had received from Stanley, and seeing the astonished expression on Harry's face, could not help adding: "Yes, I can admire pluck wherever I see it. I'm not quite sure whether Wyndham isn't worth half a dozen fellows here." Harry stayed to hear no more. A Beetle worth half a dozen Gargoyles! It seemed rank treason to listen to it. Paul felt a savage thrill of delight in praising Wyndham and seeing the consternation it had caused in Harry. "He will tell Stanley every word I have said. Getting his cousin to bring his mean, petty message. Didn't dream that anything so serious had happened, indeed! Pah!" Alas! alas! The breach between the two former friends, instead of closing, was widening. All the boys who had taken part in the raft incident were severely lectured by Mr. Weevil, and were debarred from the usual half-holidays during the next fortnight, as well as receiving a heavy number of lines to keep them busily occupied during the same period. Then the master went on to say: "Percival has done a brave act. He went to the assistance of Hibbert in a moment of extreme peril. He placed his life in jeopardy to save him. God grant that his act of bravery may not have been in vain!" Mr. Weevil paused for an instant, with closed eyes, as though he were praying; then, when he opened them again, it seemed as though the incident and all connected with it had passed from his mind, as, in a few cold words, he turned to the duties of the day. Paul was more than gratified with this brief allusion to what he had done, but he could not help noticing that no reference was made by Mr. Weevil to the part he had played in the rescue of Baldry and Plunger. His whole thought seemed centred on Hibbert. "Strange, his liking for the little chap," thought Paul. It was as though the master were trying to make up to the frail, deformed boy for the neglect of others. And whenever Paul now thought of him, it was not as he remembered him on that night when he had peeped through the dormitory window, and had seen him talking to Israel Zuker, but as he had seen him kneeling by Hibbert's bed and babbling to him tenderly in an unknown tongue. The next number of the _Gargoyle Record_ made various indirect references to the "Crusoe incident" in the editor's usual vein. "Missing Link has turned up in the neighbourhood of the river--latest mania--punting and desert islands.... Our poet is much obliged for the response given to his appeal in our last issue. He was stuck, it will be remembered, for a rhyme to 'hunger,' and the rhyme was to be a name of some kind--bird, beast, or fish. Curious to say, all our correspondents have hit upon the same rhyme and name. "Honour of the Fifth looking up a bit. Tarnished near sand-pit on Cranstead Common, it has just had a washing in the river. Better for its bath, though not yet up to its former lustre. "The Fresher of the Third who was prepared to give hints on the correct style in trousers, spats, and white waistcoats has thought better of it. Gave it up in order to get some experience of desert islands and punting in company with the aforesaid Missing Link. Experience disastrous and not likely to be repeated. Has since taken to stamp-collecting and ping-pong." Then, among the usual notices of "Lost, stolen, or strayed," appeared the following: "Pages from the Black Book still missing. Greatest loss of all--the old flag of the school. It waves over the school no longer. We have doffed the cap and bells, and gone into sackcloth and ashes. Our heart is heavy. We can smile no longer. We can only whistle one tune--the Dead March. Our heart will continue heavy. Our noble frontispiece will never beam again. Our lips will continue to warble the same melancholy tune until the old flag once more waves over Garside!" Stripped of its note of bombast, this last paragraph echoed pretty accurately the feeling of the Garsiders at the loss of their flag. Their pride had been more sorely wounded even than it had been by the affair at the sand-pit. They had been flouted and dishonoured, and, though no proof was forthcoming, they felt sure that this insult had been placed upon them by their rivals--at St. Bede's. Paul, meantime, had seen nothing of Hibbert since the day when his confession had been interrupted by Mr. Weevil. Frequently he recalled that strange scene--the boy's eerie-looking, pain-drawn face, the sad eyes fixed on his, the earnest voice, with its suppressed note of fear--as he began to unfold to him the secret that weighed upon his heart and conscience. It seemed so real, yet so unreal. The face looking up into his seemed real enough. It was the words he could not make sure of. Hibbert must have been wandering. At any rate, he had not sent for him since the afternoon he had spoken such strange words, and that was nearly a week since. "Of course, he was wandering, poor little chap, and has forgotten all about it by this time. I shall have a good laugh with him about it when he gets on his legs again," he told himself. It was the sixth day after the accident on the river that Paul was informed by Bax that a visitor wished to see him in the visitors' room. A visitor! Who could it be? Paul had very few visitors to see him. "Ah, it's Mr. Moncrief; come at last in answer to my letter!" he thought, as he made his way to the room. He was doomed to disappointment, however, for he found, on entering the room, that the visitor was a perfect stranger to him--a slim, wiry-figured gentleman, with a frock-coat buttoned closely over his chest, reddish-brown full beard, and glasses, through which a sharp pair of eyes at once went to Paul. Mr. Weevil was standing beside the visitor on the hearthrug. "This is the lad I spoke of, Mr. Hibbert--Paul Percival." The master briefly introduced them. Paul was at once interested. This gentleman with the tawny beard, and erect, alert, military bearing, was Hibbert's father. "I have only recently returned to England, and have but just heard of the accident that has befallen my son," said Mr. Hibbert. "You saved his life. I was anxious not to go before I had thanked you." He took Paul's hand in his, and pressed it hard. A boy less strong than Paul would have winced under that grip of steel. "I'm glad to know Hibbert's father." "And I'm glad to know Paul Percival. It isn't often one meets with a brave lad like you." Again he gripped Paul's hand, and seemed to be regarding him as keenly as ever through his glasses to see if he stood his grip without flinching. "I think you would find many who would do as I did--even here at Garside. It was my luck to be a good swimmer. And that luck--if I may call it luck--I owe to my father." "Your father taught you, you mean." "No," said Paul, shaking his head sadly; "I wish he had. He died when I was very young--when I could scarcely more than walk; but he was in the Navy, and it was by his wish that I was taught swimming. The saddest part is that he was drowned--drowned in saving another man's life." "Really? That is sad. I hope that the man whom your father saved from a watery grave was as grateful to him as I am to you." Paul was silent. He was thinking that if Mr. Hibbert's gratitude were no greater than the gratitude of the spy whom his father had saved from drowning it would not count for much. "I trust this will not be our last meeting. When my son gets well again, I hope to see more of you. Perhaps we may see a few of the sights of London together, if your mother has no objection." Paul thanked him and went out. He was glad that he had met Hibbert's father, though he was not a bit like the man he had pictured. He had somehow pictured him with something of the deformity that marked Hibbert, with the same sad, pathetic eyes; but they were as unlike as could be, except the voice. Hibbert's voice had somehow struck a familiar note when he first heard it. So did the father's. But there the resemblance began and ended. That same evening Paul went to the sick-room as usual, and inquired after Hibbert. This time Mrs. Trounce beckoned him in. "He's always asking after you, and it's cruel to keep you out," she whispered. "Who wants to keep me out?" "Mr. Weevil thinks it makes the lad feverish, but I asked the doctor expressly to-day, and he says it will do him good rather than harm to see any friend he asks for. Poor little dear, he hasn't many friends. His father didn't seem to care over much for him, and his visit was a short one. He asked after you directly his father was gone. I've been obliged to deny him all this time, but I can't deny him any longer. He's dozing now. Step softly to the bed. Won't he be pleased when he wakes up and sees you! I've never had a boy on my hands who is half so good and patient as he is--I fear he is too patient, poor dear." It was quite certain that during this time of trouble, Hibbert had found one more friend in Mrs. Trounce--the kind-hearted matron, who always tried to make the boys believe that she was a perfect virago with a heart of flint. Paul followed her on tiptoe to the bed and looked down on the sleeper. And as he looked, it seemed as though ice-cold fingers were clutching him by the heart-strings, so strangely still were the face and form of the little sleeper. CHAPTER XXX HIBBERT FINISHES HIS STORY "Is he in pain?" whispered Paul, as he looked down upon the still figure, for Hibbert's face looked strangely old and worn for one so young, and it was as white as the pillow upon which it lay. "I don't think so, but I've noticed, Master Percival, that he always has that troubled look when he's sleeping, just as though he had something on his mind," answered Mrs. Trounce. Paul's mind went swiftly back to the last time he was in that room--to the confession Hibbert had begun and left unfinished. Was it that which was troubling him? "Does he sleep well?" "Not always like he's sleeping now. Often and often I've heard him calling you in his sleep, as I told you just now. I'm good enough for shaking up his pillow, giving him medicine, and that sort of thing, but I've found out that boys are strange critters to deal with. They want a lot of knowing, Master Percival, but I know 'em, and what Master Hibbert wants sometimes is one of his own school-fellows to talk to. That's better than medicine. Mr. Weevil's very kind to the boy, but he don't understand him." "Doesn't Mr. Weevil like my seeing Hibbert?" "Well, he hasn't exactly forbidden it, or I shouldn't have let you in; but he thinks you excited him when you were with him on the night of the accident. But, as I sez, Mr. Weevil don't understand boys when they're ill. When Mr. Colville was in charge it was different. He knew boys he did. I wish he was back again. Since he went away things have all gone wrong." Paul heartily echoed her wish. Garside was quite different from what it had been when Mr. Colville was there. He had hoped day by day that intelligence would come of his return; but the Head still remained in the south of France, too ill to attend to his duties at the school. Presently the eyes of Hibbert slowly opened. A glad cry came from his lips when they rested on Paul. "Percival, is it really you? I thought they were never going to let me see you again. Thanks, Mrs. Trounce; it's very kind of you." A faint tinge of colour came to the pale cheek; the look of pain had gone from the face. The sight of Paul seemed to have put new life and vigour into him. The matron promptly noted the change, and was very pleased that she had taken upon herself the responsibility of admitting Paul into the room. "There, there; you mustn't get excited, or I shall be blamed for letting Master Percival in to see you, and he won't come again, will you?" "Of course I won't," answered Paul promptly. "I'm not the least excited, only glad--glad--so glad!" He repeated the word three times, to make sure there might be no mistake about it, and his thin fingers closed round Paul's, as though he feared he might slip away. "I hope the other fellows haven't got into trouble through me?" he asked. "Mr. Weevil would never tell me anything." "Oh, no; they've got off very lightly, so don't worry about that. Plunger is going about as cheeky as ever." A faint smile flickered over the boy's face. "Plunger's rare fun. He was really just as much terrified as I was when Baldry and the other fellows turned up as Indians on the 'desert island.' I can laugh at it now, though I didn't laugh much then." He lay placidly with his hand in Paul's, then turned pleadingly to the matron. "Let Percival stay with me a bit. It'll do me good, and I'm sure you want a little change." Mrs. Trounce could see that the presence of Paul had worked wonders, so she had no hesitation in leaving the two together, giving Paul strict injunctions before doing so that he was to ring the bell in case she was needed. Immediately she had gone from the room Hibbert turned eagerly to Paul. "I've been waiting to go on with what I was telling you when you were last here, Percival. It has lain here--here!"--beating his breast. "It has kept me awake at night, and--and the time seemed so terribly long and dreary. I watched and waited for your coming, but though you came they would never let me see you. Mr. Weevil was the only one I could speak to, and I could not tell him what was on my mind." "Why not? He is very kind to you." "Why not--why not! When I've told you, you will understand." "You must not excite yourself. You must not talk. If you do I will ring the bell and bring back Mrs. Trounce." "You wouldn't be so cruel, Percival, when I've been waiting so long to see you and speak to you again. It's that kept me back, made me weary, and weak, and sick at heart. When I lay awake at night-time I kept saying to myself, 'If I should die without seeing Percival again, without telling him what is on my mind, God would never forgive me.'" "If all of us were as good as you, we should be a good deal better than we are, and God wouldn't have to forgive much," said Paul tenderly. "But, there, don't get excited, and I will listen." For Paul could now see clearly enough that Hibbert had really suffered a good deal of mental pain and torture through not being able to complete the confession he had begun to him. "Thanks," came the eager answer. "It will not take long, for I haven't much more to say. Let me see, where did I leave off? Oh, I was speaking about the man who was a spy on your father on that day Mr. Weevil entered the room, wasn't I?" "Yes--Israel Zuker." "I haven't forgotten the name," said Hibbert, with a painful smile. "I'm not likely to forget it--never, never, never! For--for it happens to be my name." "Hibbert!" cried Paul. "My name. Israel Zuker, the man who spied upon your father, and whose life he saved at the risk of his own, was my father." Paul staggered back, as though he had been smitten in the face. Hibbert the son of the German spy! Hibbert the son of Zuker! Impossible! He was wandering. The story he--Paul--had once told him about his own father, and the way he had lost him, had got on the boy's mind. "Ah, you shrink from me! I don't wonder at it!" cried Hibbert. "Didn't I tell you what a hypocrite I was--how wicked?" "No, no, Hibbert," answered Paul, taking again the hand he had let fall from him; "nothing you can say will ever make me shrink from you. But--but you have so surprised me. I cannot understand. Let me think for a moment--Israel Zuker your father. How can that be when your name is Hibbert?" "That is a false name. I told you once that I knew of a boy of that name in Germany. I was speaking of myself, for I spent three years of my life at a school in Heidelberg before I came here." "Then the man I saw this afternoon--the man who thanked me for saving the life of his son, was----" "Israel Zuker, my father--the man whose life your father saved, as you, his son, have saved mine. Now can you understand what I have suffered, Percival, by having this terrible secret on my mind? When I heard your story that day you don't know what I felt--what a mean, contemptible cad. I felt that I was a spy on you, just as my father had been a spy on your father--a spy on you, who had been so good to me. Oh, it was terrible! And then you saved my life, just as your father had saved my father's years ago. And that was heaping coals of fire on my head. I couldn't endure it." He covered his face with his hands. He was choking back the sobs that seemed of a sudden to convulse his frame. "I shall really have to ring the bell and send for Mrs. Trounce," said Paul firmly. The threat had its desired effect. Hibbert uncovered his face; the sobs died away in his throat. Then Paul put an arm round him, as he might have done round a brother, and said, in a softer key: "Look here, Hibbert--what your father may have done is no fault of yours. God only judges us by what we do ourselves; and that's all I want to judge you by. You've looked upon me as your friend; I want you to look upon me as your friend still. Haven't I said that nothing you can say will make me shrink from you?" "How good, how noble you are, Percival!" "Humbug! But listen to me--we're getting a little off the track. The gentleman I was introduced to in the visitors' room this afternoon was your father, Israel Zuker, you say?" "Yes." "Wearing a false beard, then?" "Yes. But how did you know that? Have you met him before?" asked the boy wonderingly. Paul now understood what it was in the voice of the visitor that had seemed familiar to him. "I met somebody of that name during last vacation, so I suppose it must have been the same," he answered, with pretended indifference; "but he wasn't wearing a beard. It's a good disguise. What's he afraid of?" "Well, he's obliged to. I'm telling you this as a secret, and I know I can trust you not to repeat it. My father's an agent of one of the foreign Governments, and he's obliged to put on a disguise sometimes to get information." "But what information does he want to get that makes him wear disguises?" "I never could quite make out, but I know it's to do with secret service. He once told me that every Government has secret service. That's all I ever knew." He seemed to have an uneasy suspicion that his father's profession was not a very honourable one, for his head sunk to his breast. "Is your father a friend of the master's--Mr. Weevil, I mean?" "Well, yes--more than a friend; but it's another secret I don't want to get about the school. Mr. Weevil would be very angry if it did, so you must promise me not to repeat it." And Paul, scarcely knowing all his promise meant, promised him. Then the boy leant very close to him and whispered: "Mr. Weevil's my uncle." This information was almost as startling and unexpected as the information that had preceded it. As it fell from Hibbert's lips, Paul almost feared that the door would open and Mr. Weevil would walk in, just as he had walked in before. "Your uncle!" he repeated. "Well, it's this way, you see. My mother was English. She was the only sister of Mr. Weevil. I know he was very fond of her, for I've heard mother say that he was a good brother, and that she was the only one for whom he had a greater love than he had for science. My father first met her when he used to give lessons in German and French--he knows three or four languages--at the school where Mr. Weevil was master before he came here. I think my father was then what they call a refugee. My mother died three years ago; then I went to Heidelberg again, and last of all I came here. You remember the day--at the opening of the term." Remember the day! Paul was never likely to forget it. He remembered every incident in connection with it--Hibbert coming to him in the grounds, the insult put upon him by Newall, and the other incidents that followed. "I remember," he said gravely. The door opened as he spoke, and Mrs. Trounce entered. "What, sitting up!" she cried, for Hibbert was still sitting, with the arm of Paul gently supporting him. "Yes; I feel so much stronger and better," he answered brightly. "I'm glad to hear it, but I think you'd better lie down now. If Mr. Weevil came in now he would have a fit." Paul thought it highly probable such a catastrophe would happen if the master had any suspicion of what Hibbert had told him. So he gently laid the patient down again. "You'll come again, Percival?" he pleaded. And Paul promised. CHAPTER XXXI A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE The revelation that Paul had heard in the sick-room overwhelmed him. It was not till he was in the open air that he realized what it all meant. The foreign spy, for whom his father had sacrificed his life--the man who, in turn, had tried to steal from him the packet which had been entrusted to him by Mr. Moncrief--Hibbert's father! Was he standing on his head or his heels? Again he could feel the night wind on his face as he galloped along the road to Redmead; again he saw himself confronted by Zuker and his confederate; again he felt himself rising in the saddle and bringing down his whip on the man's face; again he felt the thrill of joy that leapt through his veins as he escaped from the clutches of his pursuers, and bounded once more along the road; and then--then that feeling of despair when Falcon suddenly sank to the ground, and he found that the noble horse was dying. This man, the man for whom his father had died, the man who had so relentlessly pursued him on the road to Redmead, the man who had caused the death of Falcon--this man of all men Hibbert's father, the father of the boy whom he had watched over and protected ever since he came to Garside, the father of the boy he had loved as a brother, and whom he had risked his own life to save, even as his father had risked his life to save the life of Zuker so long ago! It was indeed staggering. No wonder he hastened into the fresh air. Spiders seemed spinning webs about his brain. He could neither see nor think clearly. "Where am I standing?" he asked himself, and simple as the question was, it was not so simple to answer, for the world seemed suddenly topsy-turvy. Gradually the night air swept away the cobwebs, and he began to see things in a clearer light. This man Zuker was a spy still; nothing had changed since the day he had been found in his father's cabin, except perhaps that he had grown more daring. A spy! What did that mean? It meant that he was a menace to honest people, a danger to England, a danger to the peace and weal of the country which had given Paul birth--the country for which so many of his relatives had given their lives, the country which he loved. There could be no quarter for such a man. The longer he was at large the greater the danger. "He's in my power completely. A word from me will send him to prison," Paul said to himself. "To prison he shall go this very night." Full of this determination, Paul turned to the gate. It was a couple of miles to the police-station, but what of that? He would soon cover the distance, and be back again at Garside. So he started on his journey with a run. He had not gone far, however, before a still, small voice began to whisper plaintively in his ear. It was the voice of Hibbert--the pleading, pathetic voice that had become so dear to him. "Paul, Paul! Are you forgetting the promise you made to me so soon? Was it for this I told you my secret? Reveal my story to the police, and you will kill me--kill me, as surely as though you were to thrust a knife in my breast." That was what the voice seemed saying to him. Paul pulled himself up with a jerk. What was he about to do? Betray Hibbert, the poor boy who had entrusted him with his secret! Betray Hibbert, who had clung to him and loved him through good report and evil, who had never shrunk from him when one by one the boys at Garside had shrunk from him as from a leper! God help him! What was he about to do? He was about to turn back when that other voice whispered to him: "Your country first and foremost. You have a higher duty than the duty you owe to Hibbert--the duty to your country. Besides, this boy's father betrayed your father. Why should you shrink from betraying him? Eye for eye, tooth for tooth. Pay back the debt that has been owing so long." Paul hastened on again, but again he paused as another voice--a voice that was full of wondrous and sublime melody--sounded in his ear: "Vengeance is mine, I will repay." It seemed to him as he stood there in the moonlight, the stillness so great and solemn that he could hear his heart throb, that God had spoken. The danger to his country was not so great that it called upon him to give up the secret which had been entrusted in confidence to his keeping. He could not be true to himself or his country by being false to Hibbert! He would wait. Hibbert would get better. If the danger became real, he would lay bare his breast to Hibbert as Hibbert had laid bare his breast to him. He would tell him, fairly and honestly, why he could no longer keep his secret; then Hibbert would be able to warn his father, and he would be able to flee from the country he had sought to betray. Paul felt easier when he had come to this decision. It seemed to him that he had divided his secret with God, and that he was now acting as He would have counselled him. And surely His hand had been in it from the first--from the hour when he, Paul, had been shielded from his pursuers in his ride to Redmead to the hour which had brought the son of his pursuer to a sick bed, and induced him to pour his strange confession in his ear. Nay, could not the hand of God be seen in it still farther back, from the very hour when, at the risk of his own life, Paul's father had sacrificed his own life for the life of his enemy? Even at that time the hand of Providence must have been at work weaving the strange events which were still unfolding themselves. Paul was on the point of turning back as these thoughts flitted through his mind when the sound of a footstep caused him to draw back hastily into the shadow of the hedge. Scarcely had he done so than a tall, lean figure, with head thrust forward, passed quickly by. It was Mr. Weevil. "Where is he off to, I wonder?" thought Paul. The master had been so concentrated in his thoughts that he had no suspicion as to who was in hiding by the roadside. Paul's memory at once went back to the last part of Hibbert's story--the part which he had almost lost sight of in the overwhelming interest of the first part. Mr. Weevil was Hibbert's uncle--Zuker's brother-in-law. Were they in league together? Paul's glance followed Mr. Weevil along the road. An overmastering desire seized him, a desire that he could not resist. Instinctively, as one in a dream, he followed in the footsteps of the master. Presently they reached Cranstead Common. Instead of turning in the direction of the sand-pits, the battle-ground of the Bedes and the Garsiders, Mr. Weevil turned to the left--to that part of it which was more thickly wooded--where there were trees and furze-bushes and bramble in wild profusion. "Where on earth can he be going?" Paul asked himself wonderingly. Well might he ask, for it was scarcely possible to imagine a wilder or more solitary spot. It led to no habitation, none at least that Paul was aware of, and he was pretty familiar with the common. "He can't be on a visit to any one, unless it be the pixies, or creatures of that sort," thought Paul. "P'raps he's thinking out some scientific problem, and finds this wild part the best place to do it in." He paused for an instant. What was the use of going farther? He was on a wildgoose chase, but still the overmastering impulse which had led him to follow Mr. Weevil held him in its grip and would not let him turn back. So he went on in close pursuit of the shadowy figure in front of him. "Why, he'll be getting to the river presently. Perhaps that is what he is making for?" thought Paul as the master plunged deeper into the thicket. The river skirted the far side of the common, and it was precisely in that direction Mr. Weevil was travelling. He had never once looked to the right or left, so absorbed had he been in his thoughts, but now he suddenly paused and looked back. Paul had just time to hide himself in the friendly shelter of a tree. He stood there for an instant, then peeped out from his hiding-place. He caught one glimpse of Mr. Weevil, and then, to his amazement, he disappeared from view as completely as though the earth had opened and swallowed him up. Paul rubbed his eyes. What was the meaning of it! Where had the master disappeared to? Had he been following some phantom, or had Mr. Weevil really sunk through the ground? Paul advanced to the spot. There was apparently nothing there but bushes. Again and again he pondered on the strange disappearance of the master and was unable to account for it. "Well, if that isn't one of the strangest things I've ever seen," said he to himself. "Mr. Weevil was there a minute since, as large as life and twice as natural. Now he's gone." A feeling of awe stole over Paul. Mr. Weevil had always seemed a strange being, a man quite by himself, and different from ordinary beings. Had his dealings with science taught him some dark secret by which he could make himself invisible? But Paul quickly dismissed this wild idea from his mind. The days of miracles were past. Whatever Mr. Weevil's knowledge of science, it did not lend itself to feats of magic worthy of the genii in the enchanted realms of _The Arabian Nights_. None the less, where was he? What had become of him? Paul examined the bushes as closely as the darkness would permit, but could find no trace of the master. He stood still and listened. Save for a light breeze that was moving gently among the trees, there was no sound. It was as quiet as the grave. "My word! That's one of the greatest mysteries I've ever struck," thought Paul. He withdrew a pace or two, and took up his position beneath a decayed elm. Possibly Mr. Weevil might make his reappearance in the same mysterious way in which he had disappeared. He waited a few minutes, but his patience was not rewarded. Nothing happened. Paul began to fear that he might be locked out unless he hastened back, so he reluctantly retraced his footsteps, determined to visit the spot at the earliest opportunity. He got back to Garside without mishap or incident, but when he lay down to rest that night it was not to sleep. He could not help wondering what had become of Mr. Weevil, and whether he had spent a night on Cranstead Common. He was still thinking when the school clock chimed the hour of midnight. About five minutes later he heard a quiet footstep in the corridor. "That's Mr. Weevil," he said to himself. "I am quite sure. I could swear to his footsteps anywhere." He listened till they disappeared in the corridor, then he turned on his pillow, and tried to sleep. But he did not succeed for a long time. The events of that night had banished sleep. The next day Mr. Weevil was at his post as usual, and closely as Paul watched him he could see nothing unusual in his demeanour. He was as grave as ever--the eyes opened and closed in the same manner, most wakeful when they seemed most sleepful; and he was as prompt and diligent as ever in the discharge of his duties in the school. "Was it all a dream?" Paul asked himself, as his mind went back to what had happened on the previous night. As that afternoon was a half-holiday, he had some idea of paying a second visit to the spot, and continuing his examination of it. But he remembered that there was a still more important duty before him. He had pledged himself in the presence of Sedgefield and his companions that he would get back the school flag, and that once again they would see it flying from its old place on the turret. So far, he had done nothing to redeem his pledge. Those Third Form fellows who had cheered him so lustily would think there was no meaning in his words, that his boast was an empty one. The time had come for him to do something to make good his promise. He would begin to carry out his plan that very afternoon. CHAPTER XXXII HOW THE OLD FLAG WAS TAKEN FROM GARSIDE At this, the commencement of another chapter, we may as well take the opportunity of explaining to the reader the secret which had caused so much excitement at Garside, namely, what had become of the school flag--who had had the audacity to capture it. It will be remembered that one of the Bedes who always took an active part in opposition to the Garsiders was Mellor. The fact that he had been at one time a Garsider made him keener to "score off" his old companions, and he was ever to the fore in any enterprise for that purpose. But the great idea which possessed his mind, to the exclusion of most others, was the capture of the Garside flag. He knew that everybody in the school was proud of it. He himself had been proud of it when he was at Garside. The school flag at Bede's had no such history. It was just an ordinary flag, with a white shield in front, the initials of the school, and the school motto, precisely after the fashion of the school cap. So it came about that ever since the day Mellor had been set upon by his old companions, and made to crawl on all fours as "a Beetle," the idea had come to him that he would like to inflict upon Garside the greatest blow that had yet been inflicted upon it by gaining possession of the old flag. He thought of it by day, and he thought of it by night; but day followed day, and night followed night, and there seemed little chance of carrying out his purpose. There was only one boy at St. Bede's to whom he confided his secret, and that was his dormitory companion and chum--Edward Crick. Crick was about the same age as Mellor, with the same love of sport, the same wiliness, and the same indifference to consequences when once an idea had taken possession of him. And that's just what happened. When Mellor confided to him his secret, the idea possessed him, and he was just as keen on carrying it out as Mellor. If between them they could only get possession of the Garside flag, it would be one of the greatest achievements in the history of the school. They knew well enough that it was impossible to obtain possession of the flag by open assault. There was only one way--by taking the enemy unawares--by stealing a march upon them when it was least expected. Now, it was clear enough that in order to accomplish this purpose one of them would have to steal into the school at Garside and get to the west turret unobserved. Audacious as the scheme was, both were anxious for the honour; but after discussing the point for some time, Mellor gave way to Crick. Mellor was well known at Garside. He would be at once stopped were he found entering the school, and questioned as to what he had come for. Crick was unknown to the porter, and little known to most of the boys. The main thing was to provide him with one of the Garside caps. It so happened that Mellor had retained his old cap. There were at least twenty other boys of about the same size and age as Crick in the school. With the school cap on his head it would be easy enough for him to slip into the grounds during one of the half-holidays when most of the boys would be on the playing-fields. If any one did notice him, he might pass muster as a new boy. For the rest, Mellor was acquainted with every detail of the school building, and gave Crick precise information as to the best and surest methods to reach the west turret; so that Crick, as the result of this information, knew almost as much about the building as Mellor. Everything having been thus clearly planned, it only remained to put the plan into execution. To this end Garside had been carefully reconnoitred by the two boys at every opportunity that offered--that was to say, on every holiday. The opportunity they sought at length came--on that afternoon when Plunger and his companions were so busily engaged in playing the part of Crusoe. On cautiously approaching the school, the two confederates found that it was almost deserted. Crick thereupon boldly entered the grounds, with the Garside cap on his head and the collar of his sweater up, just for all the world as though he belonged to the school. A door at the rear of the building led through a narrow passage to the stairs leading to the turret. Crick was not long in finding the door, just as it had been described by Mellor. Entering it, he quickly mounted to the turret, and reached the trap-door leading to the roof. It had not been raised for some time, and Crick did not find it easy to open; but putting his head to it, and forcing it upward with the full strength of his body, it at length opened amid a shower of dust, and the next minute Crick was through it and on the roof. His heart beat loudly as he saw only a few yards from him the old flag flying from its staff. He did not lose his head, however. He knew well enough that, though he had succeeded in reaching the turret, his presence there might be detected at any moment. Any one passing along the grounds might chance to glance up. So, lying flat on the roof, he took a careful survey of the scene below. An exclamation of surprise escaped his lips; he could not help it. He felt like Cortez, the famous discoverer, when, with an eagle eye, he gazed for the first time on the Pacific from a peak in Darien. The Gargoyles in the playing-fields looked like so many pigmies darting between the goal-posts. Beyond them stretched the roadway leading to the common; to the left he could plainly see the glint of the sun on the river. He little dreamt what was happening there, even as he gazed. Turning in another direction, there was an almost uninterrupted expanse of country till the distance was broken by the spire of St. Bede's rising from a background of hills. He never imagined that it would be possible to see St. Bede's from Garside. He had thought the distance too great, but now the two schools, seen from that vantage ground, seemed ridiculously near. Crick remained for some time lost in the view; then a clock chiming the quarter recalled him to his purpose. He glanced again in the direction of the playing-fields. There was nothing to fear in that direction. The Gargoyles were too much occupied in their game to pay any attention to the roof. Crick drew himself nearer to the flagstaff. Slightly raising himself from his position on the roof, he lifted it from its socket, and, possessed of the prize for which he had risked so much, drew it quickly beneath the trap-door. [Illustration: "SLIGHTLY RAISING HIMSELF FROM HIS POSITION ON THE ROOF, CRICK LIFTED THE FLAGSTAFF FROM ITS SOCKET, AND DREW IT QUICKLY BENEATH THE TRAP-DOOR."] "Got it!" he cried, with a thrill of joy, as he glanced at the old, discoloured flag which had seen so much service--"got it!" Quickly rolling it round the staff, he next drew from under his sweater a cover of American cloth, which he wound in turn round the flag and staff, till nothing could be seen of them. No one could have told what the cloth concealed. It looked like a bundle of fishing-rods. Descending the stairs as cautiously as he had ascended them, he once more reached the door leading from the turret stairs. "Now for it," he thought, bracing himself up. He had only to get outside the grounds and reach the place where Mellor was awaiting him. He crept round the side wall, and was just about to hasten through that part of the grounds which lay between him and the road, when he drew back suddenly. A boy was staggering along in the direction of the schoolhouse with a burden of some sort in his arms. "My stars! Another moment and he would have seen me!" thought Crick, with a breath of relief. "What's he got in his arms, I wonder? Looks like another chap, as though they'd been in the wars together." It was Paul, hastening to the school with Hibbert. In another minute he had passed by where Crick was hiding. Then Crick heard voices. It was Paul speaking to Waterman at the school door. The listener caught the word "accident." The next moment Waterman darted past him. The coast being again clear, Crick promptly followed in Waterman's footsteps. He was not long in reaching the hedge behind which Mellor was awaiting him. "Got it?" was the eager question. "Yes. Look!" Mellor could have shouted with joy. Was it possible that the flag was actually in their possession? "Bravo, Crick! It's the biggest thing we've ever scored over the Gargoyles. My! won't they be savage! There'll be no holding them in when they find their flag's gone. But what's up? There's been an accident of some sort." "I know there has. I nearly ran into a fellow who was carrying a kid in his arms. Luckily I pulled up in time. Who were they--do you know?" "One was Percival, the fellow who skedaddled from Wyndham at the sand-pit. I don't know the kid he had in his arms, he must be a fresher." "A fresher! He wasn't much of a fresher to look at. He looked like a drowned rat." The two returned to St. Bede's by the longest but less frequented way, and at length reached it without further adventure. They determined to hide the flag for the time being, and to confide the secret to their own Form only--the Fourth. The Fourth was very jubilant, as may be imagined, at the feat performed by Crick and Mellor, who were at once looked upon as heroes. The flag, meanwhile, had been hidden in a barn, standing in a field near St. Bede's, belonging to a father of one of the day boys in Mellor's Form. Frequently they met in the barn, and withdrawing the flag from its hiding-place, stuck it in the centre of the floor, and danced round it like a band of wild Indians celebrating a victory. Things were at this pass when Paul came to the decision to visit St. Bede's, to see if he could obtain information as to the missing flag. Plunger and Moncrief minor happened to be out on an expedition of their own that afternoon on Cranstead Common. Plunger caught sight of Paul as he turned the bend of the road leading to St. Bede's. "That was Percival, I'm pretty well sure of it," he cried. "Didn't you see him?" "No. By himself?" "Isn't he always by himself? But let's make certain." The two boys ran to the roadway and glanced along it. There, sure enough, was Percival striding quickly along in the direction of St. Bede's. "Where's he making for? For the seminary of the crawlers, seems to me," said Plunger. "Queer sort of chap! What can he want up there?" Harry did not answer. He recalled the afternoon when he had seen Paul speaking to Wyndham. He had tried to forget that incident, and along with it the incident that had happened at the sand-pit. He had tried to think only of Paul's heroism on the river when he had saved the lives of three of his school-fellows. He had cheered him as heartily as the rest on that day when Baldry had called for "Three cheers for Percival!" After, as we have seen, he had tried to heal the differences between his cousin and Percival; but now all the old suspicions came back with a rush. "Yes; what can he want up there? Supposing we find out. There can be no harm in watching him." Plunger, as we know, had the bump of curiosity largely developed, and his curiosity to know what Paul was doing at St. Bede's caused him to forget, perhaps, that in playing the spy he was not altogether making the best return in his power to one who had risked so much to save him from a watery grave. So he at once fell in with Harry's suggestion, and the two, keeping in the background, followed in the footsteps of Paul. CHAPTER XXXIII FRIEND AND FOE Paul, unconscious that he was being followed, pressed forward to St. Bede's. As he drew near a boy came from the gates. Paul recognized him. It was Murrell, one of the seniors at St. Bede's, who had taken part with the others in hustling and jibing at him the last time he came in that direction. Murrell caught sight of him almost simultaneously, so that it would have been impossible for Paul to avoid him had he wished. "Hallo! Turned up again, have you?" cried the youth, coming to a dead stop in front of Paul. "I thought you'd had enough of these parts the last time you were here. But p'raps you enjoy ragging. There's no accounting for tastes--specially the taste of a Gargoyle. Look here, if I were you I would cut!" "I don't think you would. If you were me you would stand your ground, and that's what I mean doing," smiled Paul. "You're jolly cheeky, Gargoyle! Now, look here, take the advice of one who wants to do you a good turn--cut! There are a lot of the Bedes hanging about, and if they happen to get hold of you, there won't be much left of you, I can tell you! Are you insured?" "No." "My stars! I wouldn't like to be standing in your shoes--I really wouldn't! Tired of life--eh? That's why you're poking your head into the lion's den--eh?" "Wrong again--quite wrong. I've come to see one of your fellows who's been very kind to me--Wyndham." "Oh, Wyndham! The one you ran away from at the sand-pits?" Paul winced under the jibe. He had not yet got over that weakness. Murrell was regarding him curiously. No answer coming from his victim, he spoke again: "You want me to fetch Wyndham?" "If you would be so kind." "Well, if you don't take the cake--likewise the bun, and the biscuit! A Gargoyle has the superb cheek to ask a Bede to be his errand-boy! Stands Scotland where it did? Is the world going round, or is it standing still? Am I standing on my head or my heels? Now, then--your last chance! If you don't want to go back in pieces, take it! Going--going--gone!" "I don't intend going till I've seen Wyndham," said Paul firmly. "If you won't do me the favour I ask, I must keep on till I find some one a little more courteous." He was about to pass on, when Murrell stopped him with a friendly pat on the shoulder. "All right! You needn't get into a wax! You're not such a bad sort of fellow, after all, for a Gargoyle! Wait here! Shan't be long!" His tone had suddenly changed, and before Paul could say anything further he was gone. Paul was so astonished that he could scarcely believe the evidence of his eyes and ears. In an instant Murrell's attitude had changed from a threatening to a friendly attitude. Was it meant to mislead him? Had he no intention of going for Wyndham? Did he mean instead to acquaint some of the boys who had previously set on him of his arrival, so that they might carry out the purpose which they had been forced to relinquish? This view seemed certainly the more probable of the two, and therefore Paul was very agreeably surprised when, a couple of minutes later, he saw the well-known figure of Wyndham coming from the college gates towards him. His handsome face lit up with a smile as he caught sight of Paul. "Percival," he said, as his hand went out to him, "I'm so glad to see you! So was Murrell." "So was Murrell!" repeated Paul. "You wouldn't say so if you knew the reception he gave me just now. You're joking?" "No; I was never more serious in my life. As a Bede, he was bound not to be over-polite to a Garsider; but he thinks a good deal more of you than he did, and so do most of us--all through Murrell. Why? Well, he happened to catch a glimpse of what happened on the river a week or so ago--came up at the tag-end, but heard all that had happened from some of the other fellows on the bank. Murrell and many more here are beginning to think that you are too good for a Gargoyle, though you didn't cut such a grand figure at the sand-pits. They're beginning to believe what they wouldn't swallow at the time--that you're one of the bravest fellows at Garside. To think that I'm the only fellow who knows how brave! Why don't you let me speak and set you right?" "No, no, Wyndham! You're very good; but it mustn't be. There are reasons against it which you will know some day. But there is a way in which you can serve me." "What way? If I can help you, be sure I will." Paul thereupon told him the additional misfortune that had happened at Garside on the afternoon the boys fell into the river in the loss of the school flag. Wyndham listened to the story attentively. He did not speak till Paul had ended. "You mean to suggest, I suppose, that some of the fellows here took the flag?" "To speak frankly, I do; but I know well enough that you've not had a hand in it." "Thanks for your good opinion; but I don't know that I deserve it. After all, why shouldn't I have had a hand in it? The fellows here look upon you as the enemy, and you look upon us in the same light. Haven't we a perfect right to get possession of the enemy's flag if we can?" "Yes; in fair and open battle. But this wasn't in fair and open battle; it was a theft." "That's rather a hard word, Percival. It's as good as saying some one here's a thief!" Wyndham spoke with greater warmth than Paul had ever heard him speak. For the first time he saw an angry light in his eye. "Forgive me, Wyndham! I've hurt your feelings; I can see that I have. And you are the last in the world I would do that to. I'll withdraw theft. Let's call it strategy." The cloud vanished like magic from Wyndham's face. "That's a very polite and nice way of putting it, Percival," he smiled. "You're a great deal more considerate of my feelings than I am of yours. I tell you what"--his face became serious again--"it's done me a lot of good since I knew you; since I was able to open my heart to you and tell you about the little brother who was taken from us years back. I've often wished that I was at Garside to stand by you. It must be very lonely for you over there." "No, indeed; it's far from lonely, but sometimes it has been very, very hard to bear. If Moncrief had only stood by me, and all the rest of the school had been against me, I would not have minded; but----" "Ah, do not speak of that! It makes me miserable. It gave me a savage delight at the time to fight that fellow. It made me a hero here; but since I've begun to think a little I feel very far from a hero myself. It would have been far better had I never fought. It has made bad blood between you and Moncrief; it took from you your best friend, and set your school against you. It did worse than that; it has widened the breach between St. Bede's and Garside, and deepened the old feud, which was beginning to die out. And now that it has been stirred into a flame again, it will take longer than ever to die out." He paused for a moment, as though deep in thought. Paul, too, was busy with his own thoughts. He knew not how to answer him. "Don't speak against yourself, Wyndham, for it pains me a great deal more than it pains you. I owe you a lot for the help you gave me on that night I went to Redmead; but there's one other debt, greater than that even, of which I have never spoken. Speaking just now of your little brother has brought it all back to me." "Speaking of my brother?" repeated Wyndham, with that tremor in his voice which had fallen so pathetically on Paul's ear when he had first spoken of the dead boy. "Your brother Archie. I haven't forgotten the name, you see, and I have never forgotten--never shall forget--the story. I had never tried to understand younger boys till then. We bigger boys rarely do, I'm afraid. We think them only good for cuffing and fagging; so there's never much sympathy between us. When we pass to the upper forms we only remember the cuffs and kicks we got in the lower forms, and think it our duty to pay them back with interest. But your story--the story of your dead brother--stuck in my memory. I carried it back with me when I returned to Garside after vac. The first little chap I came across was a fresher--a poor, weak, lonely little chap, who hadn't a chum in the school. I thought of your brother. My heart went out to the boy, and I said to myself: 'By God's help, I'll stand by you; and I'll be your friend!'" "That was noble of you!" said Wyndham, clasping Paul's hand in his. "Who is the little chap? Is he still at Garside?" "Still at Garside!" repeated Paul, in tones that had died away almost to a whisper. "He's the little chap I fished out of the river." "Ah, then, you've nobly redeemed your promise. You saved his life." "I cannot say. He is still in bed--still very weak; but the link between us kept me strong when all Garside was against me. Once or twice it seemed more than I could stand, and I had serious thoughts of throwing up the sponge and clearing out of Garside. What was there to keep me there? Then I thought of Hibbert, and the thought made me strong again. So I kept on, and weathered the storm--or, rather, am still weathering it. The thought of the little chap kept me to my duty." Once more there was silence between them. Wyndham had tucked his arm in Paul's. The two were walking along the road to Cranstead Common. The bond of sympathy between them had grown stronger and stronger during those brief moments in which they had bared their hearts to each other. "About this flag," broke in Wyndham. "Do you know for certain that it's been taken by some fellow here?" "No; it's only a suspicion. I may be wrong, but I don't think I am." "When was it missed?" "On that afternoon when the accident took place on the river. It was a half-holiday at both schools. It was waving over the turret when I left the school; it had gone when I came back." "That's over a week ago, isn't it?" "Yes." "The fellow who took it must have had plenty of pluck. Well, if I can do anything in fairness to get you your flag back again, I'll do it; but at present it's as great a mystery to me as to you." The two shook hands and parted. Plunger and Harry had crept through a hedge, and witnessed a good deal of the interview that had taken place between the two, without hearing anything. When the two passed down the road--Wyndham with his arm linked in Paul's--Plunger and Harry prepared to follow them; but before they could move a step they were seized by the legs and thrown to the ground. "Those Gargoyles!" The words were enough. They were in the hands of the enemy. CHAPTER XXXIV THE MYSTIC ORDER OF BEETLES To the bewilderment of Plunger and Moncrief minor they found themselves in the grip of four figures, with masks somewhat after the fashion of those worn by motorists. They had been taken so completely by surprise that they made no attempt at resistance. If they had it would have been useless, for their captors held them firmly by both arms, and rushed them breathlessly across the field as far as possible from the roadway. "St--stop it, will you?" Plunger at length found breath enough to stammer. "Oh--oh!" The last exclamation was caused by a sharp dig in the ribs, which brought his question to an abrupt conclusion. Inspired by Plunger's example, Harry thought that he might also venture on a question. "Who--who are you? And--and--where are you taking us?" An answer was conveyed to him in the same forcible manner in which it had been conveyed to Plunger; but, though the dig in the ribs made him gasp, it did not altogether silence him. "Crawlers--wretched Beetles--that's what you are! Oh, oh, oh!" A dig in the ribs from both sides effectually closed Harry's lips for the time being, while the pace at which his captors took him along was increased to such a rate that he could scarcely keep his feet. At length they stopped before a barn, and the foremost of the four captors knocked upon the door three times with his knuckles. "Who's there?" came a voice from within. "Four of the Brethren," answered the youth who had knocked. "Are you alone?" "No; we have brought two novices who are anxious to be introduced to the mystic order." Plunger began to prick up his ears. The mystic order? What mystic order? And what were they going to do with them? "Two novices who are anxious to be introduced to the mystic order?" came the voice from within. "They wish to become brethren?" "Yes." "N--n--no!" came in a gasp from Plunger's lips; but another sharp dig in his ribs reduced him once more to silence. "Yes, most worthy K. O. P. They are dying to become brethren of the noble band." "I say, you unkind Beetles," began Harry. "Oh, oh!" He was silenced by the same unfailing method which had just been brought to bear upon his companion. A short conversation took place between the masked figure who had acted as spokesman and the person within. At the end of it the former turned to his companions. "Blindfold the novices. The Keeper of the Portal has commanded it." Keeper of the Portal? That, then, was the meaning of the initials "K. O. P." thought Plunger. It was getting more and more mysterious, but he did not like the idea of being blindfolded. What were they going to do with him--with Moncrief? At first he felt inclined to resist, but a sharp twist of the wrist soon convinced him that resistance was useless. Harry had come to the same conclusion, so they submitted with the best grace they could to bandages being placed round their eyes. Then they heard the door open and the voice of the "Keeper of the Portal" commanding them to enter. They entered. As they did so, Plunger thought he heard some one sniggering, and again a wild idea crossed his mind that he would strike out and make a desperate effort to escape from his captors; but the instant he moved he was brought to a standstill by the energetic measures which were now becoming painfully familiar to him. The sniggering, if sniggering it was, soon ceased, and then a strange silence reigned in the barn. The silence was a great deal worse to Plunger than any amount of ridicule. Who were in the barn? What was happening? He strained his ears to the utmost. He could hear the sound of mysterious footsteps walking stealthily to and fro, but no one spoke. He stood there and shivered, though the perspiration was oozing from his forehead. Was some desperate plot on foot against them? The footsteps ceased. All was again so still that he began to think the barn had been deserted and that he had been left in it blindfolded, to make his way from it the best he could. He was about to call out to Harry when a voice he had not yet heard called out sharply: "Gargoyle with the eyebrows, what is thy name?" Gargoyle with the eyebrows! "S'pose that's meant for me," thought Plunger, "but I'm not going to answer such impudent questions." "The noble president speaketh. Answer, Gargoyle with the wiry thatch," came a voice in Plunger's ear, accompanied by a sharp kick on the shins. Gargoyle with the eyebrows! Gargoyle with the wiry thatch! Was there ever such insolence? But that kick on the shins told Plunger that to raise any protest would only bring upon him worse punishment, so he stammered out: "Fre--Frederick Pl--Plunger." "Plunger! Thy name is worse than thy face." Plunger heard sniggers on every side at this reference to his name, of which he had always been very proud. "It's such an uncommon one, you know," he had often said to his cronies at Garside. And now the wretched crew into whose hands he had fallen were trying to make fun of it. He bubbled over with indignation, but simmered down on hearing similar questions put to his companion in misfortune. He was aroused from these reflections by hearing the chief of the band exclaim, in tones of command: "Make fast the portal!" He heard the sound as of a rusty bolt being thrust into its socket. "I say, you chaps," he protested, beginning to feel alarmed again as he heard this ominous sound, "I wish you'd stop your larks and take this wretched thing from my eyes. If you'll just oblige me, I won't give you away--I really won't." "We're going to take the bandage from thy eyes, but first thou must promise, on the banner of our Noble Order, to become a comrade and a brother." "I--I promise," stammered Plunger, anxious only to get the use of his eyes again. "Thou must promise also, by the same sacred emblem, never to reveal what thou dost see." "I--I promise." The same questions were put to Harry, who was just as anxious as his companion to see what was going on, and thought that no possible harm could be done in following Plunger's lead. So he gave the same promises. The bandages, however, were not immediately removed. The two boys could hear the sound of footsteps moving round them, and voices chanting in some unknown tongue what seemed to be a mysterious incantation. "Remove the bandages," commanded the chief, when this curious incantation, of which the two prisoners could make nothing, had ended. At this command the bandages were removed. The scene that presented itself to the astonished eyes of Plunger and Harry was one of the most extraordinary they had ever witnessed. Their four captors seemed to have disappeared. Standing around them in a circle were what appeared to be eleven beetles standing erect on two legs, instead of crawling about on four. On the breast of each was a letter, which, being white, stood out prominently from the dark background, and gave to this singular circle a still more singular appearance. The letters made up the following: M. O. OF BEETLES. in other words--The Mystic Order of Beetles. Plunger rubbed his eyes. Was he awake or sleeping? He was wide enough awake, but he could not at once grasp the situation. What did it all mean? The reader has doubtless made a better guess at what had happened than Plunger. It was in this way. Mellor and Crick, the two boys who had gained possession of the Garside flag, had found a good deal of amusement at first in making surreptitious visits to the barn, and dancing round their capture, but they soon began to long for something more exciting. Truth to tell, the capture had not made the sensation in the ranks of the enemy they had anticipated--so at least it seemed to them. They had expected early reprisals, but none had come. So, after they had performed a war-dance round the flag with their companions five or six times, Mellor yearned for something more exciting. So did Crick. So did the others. "The Gargoyles don't seem to worry much about the flag after all," said Mellor, thoughtfully wiping his brow, after the last of these spirited exercises round the Garside standard. "Not a bit. Seems to me they're only too glad to get rid of the wretched thing," remarked Finch, one of the boys who had been envious of the daring capture. "Are they? That's all you know, Finch," retorted Mellor, angry that his remark should be taken so literally. "If we could only see them, we should find them tearing their hair and gnashing their teeth." "Then why don't they come after their property and try to get it back again?" "Because they don't know for certain who's got it. They're lying low." "Well, we'd better do the same. I can't see much fun in hopping round the wretched rag. Why the Gargoyles should make so much of it I can't make out." "That's because you've never been at Garside. I dare say if we'd been left a flag like that by an old school-fellow who had made a name for himself, we should have been as proud of it as they are. It was worth getting just to set those bounders back a bit. I should like to see you do what Crick did, Finch!" There were murmurs of approval at this, and Finch subsided into silence. Nevertheless, when Mellor began to reflect, there seemed to be a good deal of force in Finch's observation. There wasn't much fun, after all, in hopping round "the wretched rag." So he thought of a way to improve matters. Once or twice the idea had occurred to him of establishing a society calling itself the "Mystic Order of Beetles," and using it for the benefit of the rivals who had bestowed upon them so contemptuous a title. Directly he mentioned it to his companions it was hailed with enthusiasm. What could be better than making some of those wretched Gargoyles eat humble pie under the very flag they were so proud of? So amongst them they designed an appropriate costume for the "Mystic Order of Beetles," and the meeting-place and dressing-room were arranged in the barn. So the society was started. Having started it, the next thing was to capture some of the enemy. In order to accomplish this interesting purpose, a band of scouts was established for the purpose of reporting on the movements of the enemy at the first favourable opportunity. It so happened that this was on the very day that Paul went to Wyndham to make inquiries about the flag. The scouts were rather disappointed when they found, from their post of observation on the other side of the hedge, that the boy making his way to St. Bede's was Percival. There had been already one trial of strength with him which had not been entirely successful. Besides which Wyndham had championed his cause, and they were bound to respect Wyndham's opinion. Furthermore, the fame of Paul's heroism had reached St. Bede's, as the reader has seen, and they had lost their former contempt for him. They were therefore on the point of turning disconsolately away when their eyes were gladdened by the sight of Plunger and Harry following Paul. Here were the prizes they had longed for. The enemy was delivered into their hands. So the scouts had carried off their prisoners to the barn, where their comrades were waiting them. What followed we have seen. Plunger and Harry looked on the extraordinary circle which surrounded them in wonder. No word fell from the Beetles. They stood perfectly still, as though enjoying the surprise which their extraordinary appearance had created in the breast of their prisoners. "I say, you are a rum lot!" Plunger at length burst out. "Mystic Order of Beetles! Ha, ha!" He burst into a wild fit of laughter, but his laughter was suddenly checked by a resounding thud upon the shoulders. He then discovered that the Beetles standing around him were armed with sheepskin bladders attached to sticks. They did not hurt much, but the noise they made was considerable. "Silence! Thy mirth is unseemly," came from the chief of the circle, who was no other than Mellor. "Remember, that thou hast been admitted to the Mystic Order of Beetles, and hast promised by the sacred emblem above thee to be true to the cause." The sacred emblem above! The prisoners looked up. There was a flag hanging from the roof of the barn--a tattered flag. Plunger rubbed his eyes. Surely it was the old flag--the flag of Garside? "Why--why--that's--that's----" "Silence!" The bladders came down in a perfect shower on Plunger's head and shoulders. As for Harry, he could not speak. The sight of the flag had smitten him dumb. "Thou hast promised to be true to the cause," repeated the chief solemnly. "Should'st thou ever dare to break the vow, thou wilt be haunted for the rest of thy life--haunted sleeping and waking by the Beetles thou hast betrayed! Describe the mystic circle." Describe the mystic circle! What in the name of wonder was that? The bladders descended upon Plunger as he stood in the centre of the ring with his companion, wondering what was expected of him. "I--I don't know any mystic circles," he stammered in despair. "On hands and knees--quick!" Plunger hastened to obey the command. "Crawl round the mystic circle three times." Plunger would have refused had he dared, but he dared not; so, amid a good deal of suppressed laughter from the Beetles standing round him, he crawled round the circle three times. "Rise, brother!" commanded Mellor, when he had accomplished this feat. Plunger gladly sprang to his feet. "Give him the mystic tap." Thwack--thwack came the bladders on Plunger's devoted head. And Plunger almost regretted that he had risen. Harry went bravely through the same ordeal. This accomplished, the Beetles joined hands, and galloping wildly around the two boys, chanted: "Beetles of the mystic band, Wind we round thee, hand in hand; Whene'er thou hear'st thy chieftain's call Rest not, pause not, hither crawl; Or to the realms of creepy-crawley, Shivery-shaky, we will haul thee!" As this incantation went on, Plunger and Harry had a lively time inside the mystic circle. By the dexterous application of a knee or a shoulder, Plunger would be sent with a run in one direction, while Harry would be sent flying in another. They were whirled about from this side to that like indiarubber balls. Then of a sudden they would find themselves closely embracing each other in the centre of the ring, only to be sundered again, and sent flying in another direction. At length the "Brethren of the Mystic Order" stopped breathless, much to the relief of Plunger and Harry. "Keeper of the Portal conduct our newly-made brothers to the door." The Keeper of the Portal, Crick, conducted them to the door. "The time has come to say farewell--for the present," said Mellor, as they all gathered round the door. "Don't forget that thou art pledged to us by the bonds of our noble order. In token whereof, give them the mystic wallop." The bladders came down with a resounding thwack on the newly-made brethren, during which the Keeper of the Portal opened the door. Plunger and Harry darted through. Roars of laughter followed them, but they did not look back. They did not pause till they were well on the road to Garside. "I say, Moncrief minor," said Plunger, drawing up breathless, "we've dropped in for a fine thing." The same idea had occurred to Harry, but he was not so ready to admit it. "How do you mean?" "Why, we've joined hands with the enemy--the Beetles. There's no getting out of it." "I suppose there isn't," answered Harry gloomily. They walked on in silence for a few moments. Then Harry glanced round, as though half fearful that some one was following, and whispered: "I say, Plunger." "Well, what is it?" "Did you notice the flag we were standing under?" "The flag we were standing under?" repeated Plunger innocently. "Well, not particularly. What was it like?" "Like! I believe it was the school flag!" "You don't say so. Never!" "I'm positive it was." "The school flag? This is awful! Couldn't you have let me know? What a duffer you are! I would have sacrificed my life to get that flag! I wouldn't have stood their nonsense like I did had I thought that was our flag. I would have fought them till my last breath. Why--why didn't you let me know?" "I thought you did know." "And to think that I crawled to them--crawled, with the flag of the old school looking on. It's nothing to you--you're only a fresher from Gaffer Quelch's; but to me, Plunger, it's--it's----" Not being able to find a word strong enough to express his meaning, Plunger suddenly turned on Harry again. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Moncrief minor, letting me make such an ass of myself." "How could I help it, Freddy. They made an ass of me too." "There you go again, always poking your wretched self in. What does it matter to you? You don't count at Garside. I do--that's the difference. I wish you wouldn't look at these things from such a selfish point of view. You're always thinking of yourself--a miserable fresher, as I've said, from Gaffer Quelch's. If it ever gets about the school that I've been made a Beetle under the Garside flag, what will the fellows think of it? I shall never hear the last of it. I shall be roasted all round." "And serve you right, too!" cried Harry, losing his temper. "A jolly good roasting will do you good. It'll take some of the bounce out of you. If it hadn't been for you, we shouldn't have got into this mess." "What do you mean?" demanded Plunger hotly. "It was all through playing the spy on Percival. If it hadn't been for following him, those Beetles wouldn't have got hold of us." "Come, that's good. Your cheek's superb. That's the only thing you seem to have brought with you from Gaffer Quelch's. Who was it suggested we should follow Percival? Was it me, I should like to know, or one of the little prigs from Gaffer Quelch's?" Harry could not immediately respond. He had forgotten for the moment that the suggestion to follow Percival had come from him. But after a moment's reflection he answered lamely: "Yes; but it was you who caught sight of Percival as he was on the road to St. Bede's and put the suggestion in my head." "Well, of all the bosh----Oh, shut up, or put on a strait-waistcoat. You're getting dangerous," said Plunger crushingly, seeing that he had "scored." Harry, indignant with himself, Plunger, and all the world, went on ahead. But after a bit Plunger caught up to him. "You needn't get into a wax because I set you right just now. I flatter myself there aren't many chaps can score over me when I choose to set about them. It's not your fault that you've got too much of Gaffer Quelch's seminary for boys and girls about you. I had it for the first term at Garside, but I soon grew out of it. And you'll grow out of it, too. Fact is, Harry, neither of us is to blame for falling into the hands of the Philistines--Beetles, I mean. Let's put the blame on the right shoulders." "And the right shoulders are----" "Percival. It was through following him we fell into that beastly trap, and it seems to me--though I don't like to say it--that Percival has a good deal to answer for. What was he doing at St. Bede's? What was he doing with that fellow, Wyndham, who knocked about your cousin so unmercifully at the sand-pits? Did you notice what good terms they were on--Wyndham with his arm tucked through Percival's." Harry had seen it all, and as Plunger was speaking he recalled that other scene he had striven so hard to forget--when he had seen Percival and Wyndham together near the school. He had tried to put that from him, especially since the heroism Percival had shown on the river. But now it all came back with a rush. There was not the slightest doubt that Percival and Wyndham were on terms of friendship. No one who had witnessed the scene that he and Plunger had witnessed could question it. What did it mean? There was something behind it all. "Yes, I noticed it, Freddy," he slowly answered. "It puzzles me, and I don't know what to make of it." Then looking up quickly, as though a sudden suspicion had come to him, he blurted out: "I say, is it possible that--that----No, I can't say it--it's too horrid." "Out with it. There's no one to hear you but me. Remember, we're both in the same boat." "No one to hear me but you," said Harry, looking quickly round. "And I shouldn't like anybody to hear but you; it's a horrid suspicion that came into my mind just now. There must be something between Percival and Wyndham, that's certain. I've tried not to believe it; but it's no use trying to shut our eyes to facts. Can it be that Percival's plotting against his own school, can it be that he is betraying us to the enemy--those beastly Beetles?" "Funny! Just the same thing's been running through my mind. Can it be that he's betraying us to the enemy, and can it be"--here Plunger's voice dropped to a whisper, as though he feared the very hedges might overhear him--"that it was he who hauled down the school flag and handed it over to the Beetles?" "No, no; I can't believe that," cried Harry, clasping his hands over his face, as though to blot out the suspicion. "And I've been trying not to believe it, but what else are you to make of it? A Beetle couldn't have got to the turret and taken the flag off his own bat. There must have been some one helping him who knew all about the school. If it wasn't Percival, who was it? What are we to think after what we've seen?" So it came about that while Percival had been doing his best to trace out where the school flag had gone, so as to return it to its old place of honour on the turret, the suspicion came into the minds of these two boys that he was betraying the school. Even at the moment that this suspicion was born, Paul was sitting by the bedside of Hibbert, with the boy's hand in his. Hibbert had been talking, but the tired eyes, which shone out so brightly from the wan face, had begun to close. Yet the hand still held fast to Paul's. And as Paul looked down lovingly on the face, he murmured to himself the words he had spoken to Wyndham that afternoon--"The link between us kept me strong when all Garside was against me." And Paul had need of strength, for the battle had not yet ended. CHAPTER XXXV A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY The improvement in the school's attitude to Paul did not last long. The Garsiders who had come over to him with a swing, for some reason swung back with the same alacrity. The juniors who had cheered him to the echo in the dormitory now passed him without a word. Fortunately, Paul's mind was too much occupied just then with other matters to take much notice of this change. First and foremost in his thoughts was Hibbert. Would he pull through? The progress he made was very slow--if, indeed, it could be called progress. One day he seemed stronger, the next found him as weak as before. A curious thing had happened on the afternoon Paul returned to the school after his interview with Wyndham. Mr. Weevil had sent for him to his room. Paul thought that it was to reprimand him for something or other. He was agreeably surprised, therefore, when the master motioned him to a chair, and in a kindly voice, altogether unlike his "school voice," bade him sit down. "I understand that you've visited Hibbert once or twice," he began, regarding Paul through his half-closed eyes. "Now it's coming," thought Paul. "He's going to forbid me visiting Hibbert." Then, aloud: "Yes, sir. I hope you've no objection." "I did object at first to visitors of any kind, because I thought it would do the lad more harm than good. But I think the objection may be withdrawn as far as you're concerned." Paul could scarcely believe his ears. Had he heard Mr. Weevil aright? "He seems to look forward eagerly to your visits, more than to the visits of anybody"--a sigh, so slight as to be almost imperceptible, escaped the master's lips. "It would be cruel to debar the poor little fellow from any pleasure we can give him. Therefore, Percival, I hope you will understand that you are quite at liberty to visit him when you feel inclined." "It is very kind of you, sir, and I am deeply grateful." "You will be careful, of course, not to make your visits too long, or not to unduly excite him." "Oh, yes, sir; I'll be careful of that." Paul rose to go, thinking the interview at an end. As he did so, the master placed a hand upon his shoulder. "You have been very good to the boy--God will reward you! The fear sometimes oppresses me that he will not get over this illness." The half closed eyes were blinking in a curious fashion. Indeed, Paul saw what was suspiciously like a tear slowly making its way down the cheek of the master. His emotion was no longer a mystery to Paul. Hibbert's revelation had thrown a light upon it. He now knew that the man whom he had regarded as without emotion--as one wrapped up completely in his equations and scientific formulæ--had yet a deeply human side. Hibbert was the son of his dead sister, and he loved him--loved him with a love that was a hundred times greater than that which the boy's own father had ever bestowed on him. And Paul learnt a lesson in that brief interview which he never forgot--that lying deep down in the hearts of most men, sometimes overladen by rust, sometimes in the midst of decay, may frequently be found a vein of purest gold. "Don't say that, sir. He was looking better the last time I saw him. He will pull round as soon as he can get out a bit." "I hope your words will come true, Percival; but he's so frail. If he were only strong like you--but there, it's useless talking. It must be as God wills." Then his voice changed to its old frigid tone. "You can go, sir." Thus abruptly dismissed, Paul went out. "Weevil's a puzzle," he said to himself. "I'm as far off knowing him as ever I was; but there seems to be some warm blood in him, and that's something. I thought he was all pothooks and hangers at one time; but he can't be as bad as that. That shows you shouldn't go by appearances. He's not half as black as I painted him." Paul was very pleased that he could now visit Hibbert without restriction, and that same night he visited him, much to the boy's joy, and sat by his bed, as we have seen, till he slept. Thus it was Paul took little heed of the school's attitude towards him for the next few days. Then an incident happened which was to absorb his attention still more. Thinking of Mr. Weevil, and his recent interview, his mind went naturally back to that evening when, devoured with curiosity, he had followed him to Cranstead Common. The more he thought of it, the more he wondered what could have become of him on that night he had so strangely disappeared from view before his very eyes. The ground had not swallowed him up, for he had returned to school that same night. What, then, was the meaning of it? Paul had promised himself that he would make an effort to find out; so, as he had heard nothing from Wyndham, he seized the first opportunity that occurred to visit that part of the common where the master had disappeared. He followed the trail which the master had pursued in the direction of the river until he came to the thickly-wooded part where the trees, furze-bushes, brake, and bramble grew in wild profusion. This was the spot where he had lost sight of him. At first Paul could see nothing but the brambles. Examining the place more minutely, he found the bushes curiously divided in the centre. Feeling beneath them, his hand came in contact with cold iron. It was a ring, attached to a circular piece of wood, rusty and moss-grown, so that in appearance there was little to distinguish it from the undergrowth. He found little difficulty in moving it. He thought at first that it would prove to be the entrance to a well, similar to the well in the ruins where he had hidden on the night he had fled from Zuker; but to his amazement he discovered that it was no well, but led to a sloping tunnel cut in the sandstone. That then was the place where the master had so suddenly disappeared. For what purpose? And where did it lead? It was impossible to tell without exploring it. Should he make the venture? Should he enter it? Paul hesitated for a moment, but only for a moment. The next he entered the tunnel, cautiously drawing over the lid which concealed it. The passage in which he found himself sloped downward, and was at first scarcely large enough to allow him to walk upright. Little of light penetrated into it, and he had, therefore, to walk cautiously along, like a blind man, making sure of every step he took. Presently the path seemed to broaden. Extending his arms to their full extent Paul could just feel the walls on either side. He proceeded still more slowly, straining his ears to catch the sound of footsteps. All was silent. It was the silence of the tomb. "My stars, what a queer place! I wish I could only strike a light, so as to have a peep at it," thought Paul. "What can Mr. Weevil do down here? It isn't a cheerful place, even for a man who happens to be very much in love with his own society." He came to a sudden pause. What was the use of exploring the tunnel further? He could see nothing, hear nothing. So where was the use of groping along in the darkness? It was folly, especially when he might be precipitated at any moment into some hidden chasm. But folly though it might be, Paul could not turn back. A mysterious voice within him seemed to be urging him on. If Mr. Weevil had passed along that tunnel in safety, why shouldn't he? It must have an outlet somewhere, and Paul grew more and more curious to find out what that outlet could be. "I feel very much like an explorer in darkest Africa," he smiled to himself. "Shall I be coming across an unknown lake presently, or a race of pigmies? Hallo! What's that? Light at last." Light it was but of the faintest. It came with a faint streak into the tunnel. The darkness was only darkness before, but now fantastic shadows seemed to menace Paul at every footstep he took. Feeble though the light was, it was enough to show him that the tunnel had broadened considerably. Stepping warily along, the light grew stronger at every step, until he at length discovered that the path along which he was so cautiously travelling led into a cave lit with oil-lamps. Then he came to a sudden pause again, and his heart beat wildly against his ribs, as he caught the sound of voices. The cave was not empty. There was some one inside. Who? As he approached nearer he saw that a curtain was partly drawn over the entrance. Paul knew that a false step might betray him. To lessen the risk of detection, therefore, he crawled on hands and knees to the curtain, and eagerly peered through the space nearest the wall. The cave looked quite warm and comfortable. A fire of anthracite, which sent out plenty of heat but no smoke, burnt on a hearth cut out of the sandstone. Two or three lamps suspended from the roof diffused an Oriental glow, while several warm bear-skin rugs were scattered over the ground. A couple of guns and two or three cutlasses were hanging on the wall; and what was more astonishing to Paul, several maps and designs. The nature of these it was impossible for him to ascertain. He further noticed that in one niche of the wall was a photographic camera. In another were ship models, in the third the models of torpedoes, engines, and machinery of various kind. Paul had taken all this in at a glance. He had not yet seen the occupants of the cave, but there appeared from what he could hear, to be only two. They were conversing in low tones at the far end, where the lights from the lamps dimly penetrated. After a while the conversation became more animated, and the two moved to a table at the centre. "I think we've succeeded in quieting suspicion," said the foremost of the two. As he spoke the light from the lamp fell full upon his face. It was Zuker, the German Jew! Paul's glance turned from him to the other man. It was Brockman, the burly ruffian who had seized the bridle of Falcon on the night of his flight to Redmead--the ruffian who struck the blow which caused the gallant horse's death. "We've succeeded in calming suspicion for the time being," Zuker was saying, "and that is a great point in our favour; but still we must move cautiously. A false step, and down would fall all my plans like a house of cards. We've been very near discovery once or twice, the nearest was when that youngster got ahead of us with the packet. You remember?" "Remember! I'm never likely to forget it," said Brockman. "I could never understand how it was the youngster slipped through my fingers." "Well, it doesn't matter so much as it has turned out, for those Admiralty men--the Hansons--have gone to sleep again. They think that danger is passed, that Zuker, the man they so fear and dread, is out of England." He chuckled softly to himself. Paul grew colder. He knew well enough the youngster they were referring to, no one better, for it was himself. It was quite clear that the letter he had sent from the school to Mr. Moncrief had never reached him. A staggering suspicion flashed into his mind. He recalled that he had entrusted the posting of that letter to Hibbert. Could it have been that Hibbert had failed him, or worse, could it have been that Hibbert had deceived him? Was he not the son of Zuker? But the suspicion only dwelt in his mind for one brief moment, and he felt indignant with himself that it had rested there so long. How could he doubt Hibbert, the one boy at Garside who had so clung to him and who was at that moment lying on a bed of sickness? "Heaven forgive me!" he said to himself; then he caught the voices of the men as they again spoke, and listened eagerly. CHAPTER XXXVI THE "FOX-HOLE" "They really believe you're out of England. You're quite sure of that?" questioned Brockman, in his thick, guttural voice. "As sure of it as you're standing there," answered Zuker. "The search for me went on actively for a fortnight, and then dropped. How should they suspect a hiding-place like this? How should they suspect that when the hounds were in full chase of the fox, he had a hole to retreat to where they could never follow?" "Ha! ha!" chuckled Brockman; "we ought to call it the Fox-Hole. I only wish we had the youngster in it who slipped through my fingers that night on the road to Redmead." "Do you really?" said Paul to himself. "Well, the youngster's obliged you, and yet you don't seem to be grateful to him." "_Zut! zut!_ Don't worry about him. He's only a cipher--a pawn in the great game we have in hand. If we win, it'll be for a prize worth winning--fame and fortune," went on Zuker, as he strode to and fro with rapid strides. "Yes, fame and fortune, and we shall have dealt a staggering blow at a country that we hate. The risk is great, but the stakes are greater still, and each day makes our position surer." "Surer? Do you think so? Sometimes it seems to me, master, that we're standing on the very edge of a deep precipice, and that one day we shall make a false step, and then----" Brockman did not finish the sentence, but gave a significant shrug of the shoulders which was much more eloquent than words. "Das ist recht--that is right; I have never hidden from you the danger. It is true that one false step might spoil all my plans, but that only makes the game more worth the winning. And listen, Brockman, we must not make that false step. We made one on that night we let the boy get through with the cipher to Redmead. We must not make another." Paul's ears tingled as he listened. Notwithstanding the peril in which he stood, his heart beat with joy. The words of Mr. Moncrief came back to him: "You have not only done a great service for me and my brother, Paul, but for your country." He had almost forgotten those words in the whirl of events that had since happened at Garside, but now they came flashing back, shining out vividly as a beacon in the darkness around him. "No; we must not make another," answered Brockman, sending his fist vigorously into the palm of his hand to emphasize his words. There was silence between the two for a moment, then it was again broken by Zuker. "Those ancestors of yours were dull dogs, Brockman, but there must have been some grit in them to have got up to Chatham. See, they got to this point." Paul could see that a chart was spread out upon the table, and that Zuker was pointing with his finger to a place on it. "Here is the River Medway, which, as you know, can be reached through this tunnel." The river through that tunnel! Was he awake or dreaming? Paul could scarcely believe the evidence of his ears. His heart thumped so loudly against his ribs that he feared the conspirators might hear him. "A chain had been drawn across the river, for all England was in a state of alarm at the approach of the Dutchmen," went on Zuker. "Fortifications had been added to Sheerness and Upnor Castle just here." Brockman bent over the chart and followed the finger of Zuker. "Just there. And the chain--what happened to the chain?" "Sheerness was first taken, and then, taking advantage of a spring tide and an easterly wind, the Dutch broke the chain." "Broke it? But wasn't it fortified?" "It was guarded by three ships, but the Dutch took them. They played havoc with several other vessels, and advanced with six men-o'-war and five fireships as far as Upnor Castle, where they burned three more. That was good, wasn't it?" "Splendid! Real pluck! Dull dogs and slow, as you say, but real grit. I'm proud of my Dutch fore-fathers." It was clear that Brockman, if not himself a Dutchman, was of Dutch descent. "The Dutch," continued Zuker, "then fell down the Medway--see, in this direction." His finger again went to work over the chart. "They sailed next to Portsmouth; they assaulted Harwich, and then sailed again up the Thames as far as Tilbury--this point here--where they were repulsed. What has been done once can be done again. Why not?" Zuker, in his excitement, strode over in the direction of the curtain. Paul drew back and waited. Had he seen the curtain move? Did he suspect there was a listener behind? For a moment Paul scarcely breathed. Then he heard Zuker pacing back to the table, and breathed freely again. "You forget the difference in the times," answered Brockman. "Then there were no ironclads." "I'm forgetting nothing. Ironclads are useless without the brains behind them. Battles nowadays are won not so much on the battlefield as by the Intelligence Department--the Secret Service"--his voice went almost to a whisper--"the service to which you and I belong." A cold feeling of horror and repulsion stole over Paul as he listened. He felt as he might have felt in listening to the rattle of a deadly snake. These men were in the Secret Service of another country--spies, collecting material for the enemy--material which might be used at any time with deadly effect against England, dear old England! And as he looked, a mist seemed to rise before him, and suddenly out of the mist he saw a strange picture--the cabin of a ship, a man bending over a dispatch-box, and rapidly turning over the papers within. Then the door of the cabin opened. An officer, with a bronzed, noble face swiftly entered, and seized the spy at the dispatch-box. The spy threw himself at the officer's feet and pleaded for mercy. Paul saw it all as clearly as though it were on a screen before him. Looking at the spy's face, he knew it for Zuker. Looking at the officer's face, he knew it for his father's. As the scene faded, he felt that he, too, must spring out on Zuker and denounce him. "Spy--traitor! You're the man who tried to betray my father! You are the man who would betray Britain!" By some impulse over which he had no control he tried to shriek out the words. His lips moved, but fortunately no sound came from them. The next instant he was brought to his senses by the sound of footsteps--footsteps in the tunnel by which he had entered. Instantly he realized the position in which he stood. The new-comer, whoever he was, was probably a confederate of the two spies inside, and would be bound to pass into the cave through the curtain behind which he was hidden. Quick as thought he retreated a pace or two, well out of the light of the lamps, and drew himself close up to the wall. Nearer and nearer came the footsteps. Presently Paul could just see the shadowy outline of a man's figure. Then he passed him, coming so close that his coat brushed against him. The figure paused. Paul held his breath, and for one brief instant thought that he had been discovered. The next, the curtain was lifted aside, and the new-comer passed inside the cave. "Ah, Weevil! What news?" came the voice of Zuker. Weevil! Paul crept again to the curtain, and peered through the side. It was the master, sure enough. He wore a cape, with the collar turned up and buttoned tight round the chin. "Still the same," answered the master. "No change?" "No change to speak of. Sometimes he's a little better; then he goes back again, and is worse. Poor little chap! it makes my heart bleed to see him." Then Paul knew they were speaking of Hibbert. "Your heart! What of mine?" exclaimed the man fiercely. "You always speak as though you were the only one who cared for the boy. And a lot of good you've done for him. It was through you I had him trained as an English boy. His mother was English, said you. It was through you he went to Garside, because you could take greater care of him, said you. What care? Himmel, himmel! You let those imps of Satan torture him; through you he has been brought to the door of death." "Cease, man--cease to torture me!" cried the master. Paul listened in wonder, not unmixed with awe. He had heard that note of anguish in the master's voice before--on that night when he had seen him by Hibbert's bed; but the face, with the light of the lamp flickering on it, might have been hewn from the limestone. It was as stern and rigid as Fate itself. "I have no wish to torture you; but it sickens me to hear you speak about that boy as though it were no concern of mine--as though you were the only one who cared for him. I tell you again, I was a fool to let him go to Garside." No answer came for a few moments. It seemed as though Mr. Weevil were struggling with his feelings. When he at length spoke, his voice was calm again. It had resumed that calm, deliberate tone with which Paul was so familiar. "I would like to speak to you for a few minutes alone, Israel." Brockman took the hint, and retreating at the other entrance of the cave, left the two together. "I wished to speak with you alone, because I have discovered one or two matters which will interest you. You were struck, you may remember, with the name of the boy who saved Tim's life?" "Yes; what of it?" "You thought that he might be the son of that Captain Percival who years ago saved your life at the risk of his own. I knew that the boy's father was dead, and on examination of the school-books, I found that he was a naval officer. I was not aware of the circumstances under which he met his death, however. I have since discovered that he was drowned at sea 'whilst trying to save the life of a spy'--pardon me the word, but so the record runs." "_Ach!_ Is it possible?" came hoarsely from Zuker's lips. "I had my suspicions when I first questioned him." Paul pressed his ear closer to the side of the curtain. He was anxious not to lose a word of what was spoken, for he knew that he was "the boy" to whom the master was referring; that "Tim" was, of course, Hibbert. "I have discovered, further, that it was this same boy--Paul Percival--who got through with that letter to Redmead." "The same? Ach Himmel! I caught but a glimpse of him in the darkness that night." "The hand of a Higher than man is in it. You cannot escape it. Be warned in time. Give up this scheme of yours; if not for your own sake, for the sake of your son." "Give up the scheme--the scheme for which I have worked so long. The scheme which, day by day, brings me nearer to fame and fortune. You talk like a madman. It is more to me than life itself--more to me than the life of fifty sons!" A cry of pain came from Mr. Weevil's lips. "I know you well enough--you have no love for my scheme. Your heart is in what you call science, and in the boy. You wish to frighten me--frighten me from the work which every day draws nearer to success. Shall I tell you what for? So as to drive me back to the Fatherland that you may keep all to yourself, my boy--the boy of your dead sister. Ach! I see through your scheming!" "Hush, man--hush! Is it to hear reproaches from your lips that I have risked so much--that I have involved myself in these schemes of yours which may mean my ruin?" Mr. Weevil's voice was stern, fearless; but as quickly turned to a softer key. "Let us not quarrel, Israel. Heaven forbid that we should quarrel over the boy whom we both love in our own peculiar way. Remember that his life is still in jeopardy." They shook hands, and then Mr. Weevil turned towards the curtain behind which Paul was hidden. CHAPTER XXXVII THE LETTERS AT THE TUCK-SHOP This time Paul did not move--he could not. He was as one rooted to the spot. Fortunately, Mr. Weevil did not come to that side of the curtain where he was crouching, but passed through on the other side. It was not till he had hastened past Paul that the power of movement returned to his limbs. To remain there longer was useless. He had heard enough--more than enough. But he was unable to think clearly in that tunnel. The air seemed to stifle him; he must get outside. So he followed in the master's footsteps, taking care, however, to keep a good distance between them. At length he reached the entrance. He waited a minute or two, then cautiously lifted the circular piece of wood that covered the entrance, and made his way through the undergrowth to the open. By that time Mr. Weevil had disappeared from view. "Am I awake or dreaming?" Paul asked himself, as he drew a deep breath of relief. It seemed, indeed, like a dream--or, rather, a nightmare--that cave, the two conspirators, the conversation he had overheard about the taking of Sheerness by the Dutch, the advance on Upnor Castle, and, lastly, the appearance on the scene of Mr. Weevil. What was he to do? How was he to act? He was face to face with the same dilemma that had confronted him when Hibbert had confessed to him his relationship to Zuker. The more he thought of it, the more difficult it seemed to move. He was bound hand and foot by the promise he had made to Hibbert. How could he be false to that promise--how could he give information which might cause his death? Strange to say, his confidence in Mr. Weevil had grown by what he had overheard at that interview. It was true enough that the master seemed involved in some way in the schemes of Zuker, but it seemed equally certain that he was against them. The words he had overheard were still ringing in his ears: "You wish to drive me back to the Fatherland, and keep all to yourself, my boy--the boy of your dead sister!" Things seemed clearer to Paul. The master's purpose seemed clearer. It was his love for his nephew--for Hibbert--which had involved him in the schemes of Zuker. Paul had disliked and suspected Mr. Weevil, but, curiously enough, he now seemed to understand better than ever he had understood before, and that understanding was to the advantage rather than the disadvantage of the master. "The hand of a Higher than man is in it." Those were the master's words. They had been spoken from his heart; there was no doubt of that. Though they had failed to move Zuker, they had moved Paul strangely. Yes; the hand of a Higher than man was in it, and the designs of Zuker would certainly be overturned. "I wish Mr. Moncrief had answered my letter, though," he said to himself, as he returned to the school. It must have miscarried. He determined to question Hibbert about it again that very evening. So when the evening came he went to the sick-room, and the nurse, who was now in attendance, gladly vacated her place at the bedside to him. As usual, Hibbert had been looking forward to Paul's visit, and the thin white face was at once all sunshine. "I'm feeling ever so much better," he said, in answer to Paul's inquiries. "I'm feeling quite strong. I shall soon be out again if I go on like this. Do you think the fellows will be pleased to see me?" "Of course they will!" "I was never very popular, you see," Hibbert went on thoughtfully. "It was all my fault. I never took any interest in the sports. I mean to be different when I get off this wretched bed--turn over a new leaf; go in for footer, cricket, and that sort of thing. I don't see why I shouldn't do as well as the rest of them, do you, Percival?" "I don't see why," answered Paul cheerfully. "And there's a lot of other things I mean to do. Do you know, I've been thinking over so much to-day about our being at the same school--how wonderful it all is that you and I should be at Garside. And when I get out again, do you know what I mean to do?" Paul shook his head. He was looking at the face, which seemed to grow smaller and smaller, and wondering whether Hibbert would get out again. "I mean to do my best to pay on that debt my father owed your father--the debt that never has been paid. That'll be something to live for and work for, and God helping me, I'll do it--do it! Don't say that you don't wish it--that you don't want it." "Certainly not," answered Paul, very softly, falling in with his mood. "You shall do as you think best when you get out again." There was silence between them for a few moments. Hibbert lay with his hands crossed on his breast and his eyes upturned to the ceiling. "What have you been doing this afternoon, Percival?" he suddenly asked, as his eyes went back again to Paul's face. The question took Paul by surprise. How could he tell Hibbert what he had been doing that afternoon--the discovery he had made, what he had seen and what he had heard in the cave? "Doing?" "Yes. Half-holiday, wasn't it? I still keep count of holidays, you see." Hibbert smiled. "Oh, I went for a walk!" "By yourself?" "By myself." Paul could see that the boy's eyes were scanning his face curiously, so he added quickly: "I'm rather fond of walking by myself." "Have you heard anything about the flag?" "How did you come to know that it was gone?" Paul asked, astonished, for he had thought it better not to trouble him with the information. "Oh, Mrs. Trounce told me. I get her to tell me any special news. I like to know what's going on in the school. Matron's a good sort. It was a beastly shame to take the flag, whoever did it. Have they got any clue?" "Not yet." "I expect the Beetles had a hand in it. What do you think?" "I scarcely know what to think. It's a mystery. You haven't been climbing to the turret in your sleep, and hauling the flag down just for the fun of the thing, have you?" The idea quite tickled Hibbert, for he laughed outright. "By the by," said Paul, turning the conversation to the purpose for which he had come to that room, "you recollect that letter I gave you to post a few weeks back?" "Yes." "You're quite certain you posted it?" "Quite certain. I think that I said so at the time." Paul noticed that though Hibbert was quite certain that he had posted the letter he spoke with some hesitation. "Yes, yes; you said so at the time--that's quite right. But I was wondering whether by any chance you might have given it to some other boy to post." "No; I put it in the letter-box with my own hands." Hibbert again hesitated for a moment, then added; "Something did happen, but I did not think it worth while to worry you about it." "What was it?" Paul asked eagerly. "I was blockhead enough to run full tilt against Mr. Weevil when I got outside, and--and he caught sight of your letter." "Caught sight of my letter! And what did he do?" "Made me go to his room. He asked me who sent me with the letter, and I was obliged to tell him. It didn't matter, did it?" "It didn't matter," repeated Paul, his throat suddenly becoming parched. "Well, well, what happened then?" "He took the letter to his room, but came back with it in a minute or so and handed it back to me. He said that you had broken the rules of the school in sending off a letter without the knowledge of the masters, but he would overlook the offence, for--for my sake. That's the reason I didn't make a fuss about it to you." "He said that--Mr. Weevil said that? And he gave you back my letter? You're quite certain it was the same?" "Oh, quite certain! I thought perhaps he might have opened it, as he said he had a right to, so I looked at it to make sure it was the same. It was the same--in your handwriting. I could tell that anywhere. But what makes you ask? Has it miscarried?" "I hope not. I haven't had an answer yet--that's all. I dare say I shall get one presently, so don't you worry about it." To prevent him doing so, Paul turned the conversation again to other matters, and then went out. The information Paul had given him about the letter set him thinking. What had the master done with his letter in the few brief moments he had had it in his possession away from Hibbert? Had he opened it and read it? If so, was the letter he had handed back to Hibbert to post the same letter that he--Paul--had written? to Mr. Moncrief? Hibbert was sure that it was--sure that it was in his handwriting. In any case, a letter had been posted to Mr. Moncrief. What letter was it? In this state of perplexity, Paul determined to write briefly to Mr. Moncrief again. That was the only way in which all doubt could be ended. So he wrote a note stating that he had written a letter of some importance a few weeks since, and wishing to know as soon as possible whether or not it had been received. This letter he directed the same as before--"W. Moncrief, Esq., Redmead, Oakville, Kent." He determined that this time he would post the letter himself; so the next day, watching his opportunity, he slipped from the grounds, and posted it at the village post-office. "It can't go wrong now," he said to himself, as he retraced his footsteps. Meanwhile, Plunger and Moncrief minor were thrown into a state of great excitement by finding letters awaiting them at the adjacent tuck-shop. Plunger tore the envelope open. Immediately he drew out the letter and glanced at it he groaned. His groan was echoed by Harry. On the top of Plunger's letter was a rudely-designed facsimile of a cockroach. On the top of Harry's letter was a similarly grotesque design. Beneath it, in scarcely less grotesque handwriting, as though one of the legs of the cockroach had been dipped in ink and made to trace words upon the paper, was the following: "Brother of the Mystic Order,--Greeting from the Brethren. Meeting to-morrow afternoon at headquarters. Time, half-past three sharp. Be not absent at thy peril." Then followed the lines which Plunger so well remembered--the words which had formed part of the incantation of the "Mystic Circle:" "Whene'er thou hear'st thy chieftain's call, Rest not, pause not, hither crawl, Or to the realms of Creepy-crawly, Shivery-shaky, we will haul thee." Plunger groaned again. Harry again echoed it. "What are you making that row for, you little ass?" cried Plunger testily. "Thought I'd cheer you up a bit. You look just awful, Plunger!" "You look worse than that! Ever seen a petrified mummy? No? Well, just look at yourself in the glass, then! What's your letter about?" They exchanged letters, and found that they were in precisely the same terms--that both were summonses for them to appear before "the Mystic Order" at the same date and hour. CHAPTER XXXVIII "FORGIVE, AND YE SHALL BE FORGIVEN" The two boys looked at each other blankly. How were they to act? What was to be done? If they refused to obey the summons from the "Mystic Brethren," they knew not what would be the penalty. The more they looked at the letters, with their grotesque design, the more imposing they seemed. "What's to be done, Freddy?" asked Harry, when they were outside the shop. "We shall have to go, I suppose!" answered Plunger despondently. "We've given ourselves away, you see. We're one of them--one of the wretched Beetles. We've taken the vow of allegiance. They've got us in a tight corner." "What's the 'realms of Creepy-crawly, Shivery-shaky' I wonder?" asked Harry, in an equally dejected tone. "Some ditch with plenty of toads and slime about it, I expect. You needn't be anxious. We'll know soon enough!" groaned Plunger. "I wish to goodness you'd been anywhere before you let me in for this mess! Why did they ever let you loose from Gaffer Quelch's?" "Oh, shut up, Plunger! You're tiring! After all, you wouldn't make such a bad Beetle. You can crawl a lot better than you can punt, and----Oh, oh!" Plunger had caught him by the ear and given it a vigorous pull. Harry returned it by kicking Plunger on the shins. Having thus equalised matters, they became once more on friendly terms. "Look here, Harry, we're both in the same boat. Supposing we don't go?" "Then what'll happen?" "I don't know. We shall have to chance that. They can't eat us." "Oh, but I'm not afraid! It's not that; but--but I don't somehow like breaking my word." "Neither do I. It's jolly awkward; yet, come to think of it, I don't see why we shouldn't." "We promised to be true to the cause." "Yes; but the promise was got from us by force, and that isn't binding. I've heard my pater say so." "Oh, he's in the glue line, and ought to know what's binding! Stop it, Plunger!"--as Plunger seized him once more by the ear. "That's the worst of you. You don't know a compliment when you hear one. Don't I wish my pater was in the glue line! It's fine stuff. Made out of horses' hoofs, isn't it? Well, go on. Not binding, you said. How do you make that out?" "Haven't I said, stupid--because it was got from us by force? But don't take my word for it. Let's ask your cousin. Will that satisfy you?" Harry at once consented. He still had the highest admiration for his cousin, notwithstanding the fact that he had been defeated by a Beetle. They returned to the school, where they were not long in finding Stanley, who had just been joined by Newall. "We want to talk with you alone, if--if you wouldn't mind, Stan," said Harry. "You don't think that I'm going to clear out for any of you Lower Form cubs, do you?" sneered Newall. "Oh, you can speak before Newall as you would before me, Harry! Come, fire away!" Harry still hesitated. He could not forget how Newall had served him when he first came there, but while he was hesitating Plunger began: "This is what we want to know. Supposing any fellows in this school--we won't mention names--happened to be captured by the enemy, and supposing the enemy forced them into a--a----" "Secret society," put in Harry, as Plunger came to a standstill. "Yes, secret society. A kind of brotherhood--vendetta, with masks and knives and forks--daggers, I mean--and that sort of thing----" "Now, look here, Master Plunger, stop plunging! Drop it, and come to the point!" said Stanley firmly. "What do you want to know? Come, Harry; you're not so gassy. Perhaps we can get some sense out of you." Harry explained as well as he was able what they wanted to know. Stanley at once decided that a promise given under such circumstances was not binding, and his opinion was, of course, backed up by Newall, who was eager to know what this mystery could mean. Thus assured, Plunger and Harry told them all that had happened on the afternoon they had been captured by the "Mystic Brethren." As may be imagined, Stanley and Newall were greatly excited by the story--especially that portion of it referring to Paul. "Now are you satisfied?" cried Newall triumphantly. "Didn't I always say what Percival was? He's not only a cur, but a traitor!" And Stanley, who in days gone by would have fiercely resented the slightest reflection on Paul, allowed the words to go unchallenged. "You're quite certain that it was Percival you saw?" he at length asked. "Am I certain that I see you?" answered Plunger. "Besides, Harry saw him, too. Both of us couldn't be mistaken." "There wasn't much mistake, Stan. I wish there had been. That makes the second time I've seen them together." "If you don't believe us, you'd better put to him the question straight. Send for him now, and put him face to face with us. See if he'll deny it then!" "I think you're right, Plunger. We'll send for Percival, and see what he has to say. You go and fetch him, Harry. You'll find him somewhere about the grounds. "One moment. Don't be in a hurry. We've got an artful young gentleman to deal with, and if we want to find things out, and pay back the Bedes in their own coin, we shall have to be artful as well. We mustn't show our hand too soon." "I don't quite understand." "No; but I'll make all clear in a word or two. If we call in Percival, we shall not get much from him. It isn't likely he'll give himself away. He'll say that Plunger was mistaken; that it wasn't him, but somebody else who was talking to the fellow up at Bedes. What we've got to do is to meet craft with craft, and go one better than Percival at his own game." "Hear, hear!" cried Plunger. "But how are you going to do it? Strikes me you'll have to get up very early in the morning to score off Percival." "We sha'n't score if you keep that noisy tongue of yours wagging, Mr. Plunger. All you've got to do is to keep quiet till to-morrow evening, and then you can let it wag again as much as you please. My scheme is this: We've first got to make good your word about the flag. If we can get it from that shed in which you say it is, we can prove that you haven't been dreaming. With the flag in our possession, we'll call a meeting of the principal fellows from each Form down to the Third. You and Moncrief minor can tell the story. Percival can then say what he pleases. We can produce the flag to prove our case--and--there you are! Percival will be kicked out of Garside!" Stanley did not speak. The chasm between him and Percival had gone on widening instead of narrowing, but it was no pleasure to him to hear those words. Percival kicked from Garside! Then Garside would no longer be Garside to him. Harry, too, was silent. He did not know why, but he began to think they were not doing the right thing by Percival. They were trying to trap him, and the one setting that trap was the one who hated him. "A jolly good idea, Newall!" exclaimed Plunger enthusiastically. "Smart--real smart! But how are you going to work it? How are you going to get the flag?" "To-morrow's Wednesday; so we've got the whole of the afternoon before us. You're supposed to meet the Beetles at half-past three, aren't you?" "Yes; half-past three sharp." "Well, we'll be beforehand--half an hour, say. That will give us plenty of time to get possession of the flag, and away with it before your brethren of the Mystic Circle put in an appearance." "You--you won't want me?" asked Plunger anxiously. He had a keen recollection of what had happened at the shed the last time he was there. "Of course we shall. You'll have to take us to the shed and show us what's inside it." Plunger did not like this suggestion. Why couldn't Newall have selected Moncrief minor? But he could not very well raise any objection. So, making a virtue of necessity, he raised his eyebrows to their fullest extent, and said he should be "delighted." Then came the question as to who should go with Plunger. It was not advisable to take too many, for fear of the risk of discovery. So Newall decided that only three should accompany Plunger--Stanley, Parfitt, and himself. Stanley would gladly have given way to anybody else, but Newall insisted that he should be one of the party. He seemed determined to leave no stone unturned to blacken Paul in the eyes of his one-time friend. Stanley crept away as soon as he could to the solitude of his dormitory. He was very wretched. He felt as though he were acting a mean part. It might be true that Paul was not the friend to him that he had at one time been--that he had gone over to the Bedes, and acted a mean part; but that was no reason why he should act a mean part, too. Two blacks did not make a white. "Percival will be kicked out of Garside!" Newall's words kept repeating themselves in his brain. He could not forget them. Percival would be kicked out of Garside, and he would be one of those who had helped to kick him out. No, no; whatever wrong Paul had done him, he could not do that. But how could he prevent it? How could he put him on his guard? He thought for a long time; then he got a half-sheet of notepaper, and wrote on it in a disguised hand: "Beware! Steer clear of Bedes. Plot on foot to turn you from Garside." The next difficulty to get over was--how to get that note to Paul without rousing suspicion. It must be read by him, and him alone. He was a long time before he could think of any means of accomplishing this purpose; then he remembered that Paul was in the habit of reading a few verses every night before going to rest from a Bible given to him by his mother. He went to Paul's dormitory--the dormitory in which he had once slept, and to which he had often longed to get back. Glancing cautiously in, he found that it was empty. He crept softly to Paul's locker, and drew out his Bible. There was a bookmark in it. He opened it at the bookmark. The first words that met his eyes were: "Judge not, and ye shall not ye judged; condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned; forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.... With the same measure that ye mete, withal it shall be measured to you again." Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven! The words seemed in a mist before Stanley's eyes. Pshaw! What had he to do with forgiveness? His eyes went again to the Bible: "With the same measure that ye mete, withal it shall be measured to you again." He read the words thrice, then placed the note inside the Bible and closed it. "He's sure to see it, I should think, and won't suspect who put it there," he told himself, as he stepped softly to the corridor. Scarcely had he reached it when he heard a footstep coming along it. Looking in the direction whence it came, he saw that it was he of whom he had been thinking--Paul Percival! CHAPTER XXXIX THE MISSING FLAG Stanley did not wish to meet Paul. He might suspect his purpose in being there. There was no possibility of turning away, however, so he kept straight on, keeping as close to the wall as possible. Paul's head was bent to the ground. He seemed absorbed in thought, and passed by Stanley as though he had not seen him. "I don't think he saw me," Stanley told himself. "He looked a bit worried, and I don't wonder at it. He can't have a very pleasant time of it." For an instant Stanley felt inclined to turn back. "Forgive and ye shall be forgiven." Still the words he had just read were repeating themselves. Paul and he had not spoken for so long. A few words might clear up everything. Clear up everything? No. How was it possible to clear up that scene in the sand-pits? So Stanley's heart hardened again, and he went on. Meanwhile Paul entered the dormitory, and drew from his pocket a note he had just found awaiting him at the porter's lodge. He had read it twice before, but he could not help reading it again. "Meet me to-morrow (Wednesday), half-past two, at old elm, near sand-pits. Be sure and come. Very important." This note was scribbled in pencil, and unsigned, but Paul knew the writing well enough. It was Wyndham's. What was it Wyndham wanted with him? What was it that was so important? Had he gained any information as to the missing flag? He was thinking over this note when he passed by Stanley, and it was this which had given to him that "worried" appearance that Stanley had noticed in his face. He sat for some time musing over this letter, and then, to get away from it, drew from the locker his Bible. It opened, of course, at the place in which Stanley had placed his note. Paul unfolded and read it, with no small astonishment: "Beware! Steer clear of Bedes. Plot on foot to turn you from Garside." Plot on foot to turn him from Garside! What could the plot be? This note was more puzzling than the other. Like that, too, it was unsigned; but this time Paul was beaten. The writing was unknown to him. He could not guess the writer, but he could see plainly enough that it was in a disguised hand. Then he suddenly realized that the two notes clashed. The one was an invitation to meet a Bede; the other warned him to steer clear of Bedes. If he obeyed the one, he would have to disregard the other. What was he to do? He did not hesitate long. Wyndham he knew. His friendship had been proved. He knew nothing of this anonymous writer--the writer who professed to warn him of a hidden danger, but did so in a disguised hand, and had not the courage to put to it his name. He would keep the appointment with Wyndham, whatever happened. So the next day, as soon as the clock had struck two, and he was free, Paul started off for the old elm, near the sand-pits. Punctual though he was, Wyndham was awaiting him. "I'm so glad you've come, Percival," he said, as he came towards him and shook him warmly by the hand. "I've splendid news to tell you." "The flag?" exclaimed Paul, speaking the thought that was uppermost in his mind. "You've made a very good guess. Yes, the flag. I've got some very good news about it--very good news indeed. In fact, I rather fancy I know where it is." "Where--where? Can we make for it?" exclaimed Paul, excited at the news. "Wait a bit. Don't be in such a steaming hurry!" smiled Wyndham. "Before I say a word more, I must ask you not to make use of the information I'm going to give you against any of our fellows at Bede's." Paul readily consented. To get possession of the flag was the chief thing he cared for. That accomplished, he could afford to be magnanimous. "From the first I suspected that one of our fellows had a hand in it," went on Wyndham. "You remember that day when you were set upon by a dozen or so of the sweet cherubs from Bede's?" "Only too well." "Sorry to stir up painful memories. There was one amongst the number said to belong to the amphibia. Do you recollect that, too?" "Of course I do!" laughed Paul. "Mellor, you mean--once a Gargoyle, now a distinguished Beetle? Recollect it? Who could forget it? It labelled him to a T. You don't mean to say----" "Yes, I do," smiled Wyndham. "He and another Beetle, whose name I needn't mention, captured the flag between them. It was a plucky thing to do, and when I found out what had happened, I don't think I should have troubled any more about it, only I remembered that there was a fellow at Garside who was standing alone, fighting against the wall." "Wyndham!" "Don't interrupt. This fellow was rather anxious to get hold of the missing flag; and so, out of respect for him, and not for any of the mean cads who hail from the same place, I persuaded Mellor & Co. to hand it over. It was not easy work, I can tell you. They felt that I was robbing them of their rightful prey. But at last they came round, and----" "You got possession of the flag!" cried Paul. "How splendid of you, Wyndham! Instead of getting out of debt, I get deeper and deeper into it. But where is the flag?" "Can't you guess?" smiled Wyndham. "Guess?" repeated Paul, puzzled. "Yes. I've done my part; that's your part," answered Wyndham, enjoying his mystification. "S'posing we go for the old game--'Hot boiled beans and very good butter'? Hallo!" The smile died from his face as his glance went to the roadway. "Here are some of your lot! They haven't got wind of our meeting, have they?" Paul glanced in the direction of the roadway. Sure enough, there were four Garsiders coming along the road--Newall, Parfitt, Plunger, and Stanley. As his glance went to the road Parfitt caught sight of him; then all four stopped and glanced in the direction where Paul and Wyndham were standing. An animated conversation took place for a minute. It seemed as though they were undecided how to act. Then they came to a decision, and walked quickly on. "I'm not sorry they didn't come, though I should have been pleased enough to meet them at any other time," said Wyndham contemptuously. "Let's get on with our game. Now, then, are you ready? 'Hot boiled beans, very good butter; ladies and gentlemen, come to supper.' At present you're frightfully cold, freezing, perfect icicle." He rubbed his hands together, and flung them across his chest, and blew upon his fingers as though he were suffering from the same complaint; and then he laughed again at Paul's mystified expression as he gazed round. There was no sign of the flag. At length Paul's glance rested upon the decayed old elm-tree, near which they were standing. "You're getting warmer," smiled Wyndham. Then, as Paul walked towards the tree: "In fact, quite hot." Paul put his hand into the hollow of the tree, and drew out the missing flag, wrapped in a covering of American leather-cloth, just as it had been when Mellor and Crick had taken it to St. Bede's. "What can I say, Wyndham?" he asked, in a thick voice as he stood there, with the prize in his hand. For the moment there seemed to be a mist before his eyes. "Say? Nothing, of course! All you've got to do is to get back to Garside as soon as you can, for I shouldn't be surprised if those fellows we saw just now mean mischief." The anonymous letter flashed into Paul's mind as Wyndham spoke--"Beware! Steer clear of Bedes. Plot on foot to turn you from Garside." Could it be that the four he had seen were concerned in that plot? It was quite possible to believe it of Newall and Parfitt--they had always been his enemies--but Stanley--No, he could not believe it of him. However, he scarcely cared what happened to him now he had gained possession of the flag. He would be able to redeem his promise. The main thing was to get it back to its old place on the turret. So he took Wyndham's advice, and started back to the college without further delay. Meanwhile the three who had started from Garside, under the guidance of Plunger, for the purpose of capturing the flag on their own account, had passed Wyndham and Paul, as we have seen, on the way. They little suspected the purpose of that meeting. They never imagined that it had anything to do with the flag. Parfitt, the first to catch sight of the two, gloated over the discovery. Stanley's heart fell. He now saw with his own eyes that Paul was really on friendly terms with Wyndham. He had taken no heed of his note of warning. He had treated it with scorn. "He's playing a deep game," said Parfitt. "I believe he means turning over Garside for Bede's, like Mellor did." "I believe so, too; but he can't do it before next term, and we must get our blow in before then. It all depends on getting hold of that flag. Now, then, Plunger, buck up!" Plunger increased his pace, and it was not long before he reached the shed in which he and Moncrief minor had been initiated into the "Noble Order of Beetles." They reached it, as arranged, fully half an hour before the time appointed for Plunger to meet "the mystic brethren." So, as they hoped and expected, they found it empty. "Now, Plunger, where do you say the flag is? Quick! We've got no time to lose!" said Newall. Plunger did not answer. He stood dumfounded. There was the place where he had been initiated into the "mystic brotherhood." There was the place where he had stood and looked up at the "mystic emblem," and had discovered to his amazement that it was the missing school flag. He rubbed his eyes then; he rubbed them now. The flag had gone! Gone! Had it ever been there? Was that scene, after all, as it had more than once seemed, only a dream? "Wake up, sleepy!" cried Newall, kicking him on the shins to rouse him. "Where's the flag?" "It was there, just over my head," answered Plunger, pointing to the roof above him; "but it isn't there now." They searched the shed, but could find no trace of the missing flag. There was a large box in which it might be hidden, but that was locked, and there was no time to force it. "You're not making fun of us, Plunger, are you?" demanded Newall, clutching him fiercely by the arm. "Really, I'm not." "Well, look here, you'll have to meet these fellows again, just as though you'd turned up in answer to their note, and see if you can worm out anything about the flag. If we're seen here it'll spoil the game. But we won't be far off. If you want any help, yell out, and we'll see what we can do for you. Do you understand?" Plunger understood perfectly, but, all the same, he did not like the prospect of meeting the brethren of the mystic order again. However, there was nothing for it but to give in, so he gave in with as good grace as possible. CHAPTER XL HOW THE FLAG FOUND ITS WAY BACK TO THE TURRET Paul got safely back to Garside with his prize. He mounted with it to his dormitory and undid the covering in which it was encased. Yes, there was the old flag, none the worse for its temporary absence from the school. Paul's heart beat the quicker. He was as proud of the flag as any boy at Garside, and as he looked at it he realized in some degree the feelings of a soldier when he has recaptured the colours from the enemy. Folding it up again, he hid it under one of the cubicles, and went in search of the boys who had been with him in the dormitory when the loss of the flag was first discovered. He was not long in finding Moncrief minor, who was wandering about the ground like a lost spirit. He was unhappy at the absence of his companion in mischief, the redoubtable Plunger. He began to think that he had been left out in the cold. What a hero Plunger would be if, through him, the flag were brought back again to the school! As he was thus thinking he saw Paul coming towards him. He quickly turned his head and walked off as though he had not seen him, but Paul came up with him in a stride or two, and, clutching him by the arm, twisted him round till he was in front of him. "You needn't run away, Harry. I want you to do me a favour." "What is it?" asked Harry, reluctantly. "You remember that afternoon when the flag was lost?" Harry looked up quickly. What was coming out about the flag now? Ha, ha, he guessed what it was! Percival had begun to smell a rat. He meant trying to pump him, so he answered cautiously. "Of course I do, and so do most of the fellows here, I'm thinking. I wonder if we shall ever get it back again?" "I wonder. It was Viner who brought us the news, I remember, and besides yourself there were several other fellows in the dormitory at the time--Baldry, Plunger, Sedgefield, Bember. I want you to get together again the same fellows if you can, and bring them to my dorm. Would you mind doing that for me?" "What for?" was the curious answer. "Oh, I'll explain what for when you're there. Will you do it?" Harry thought for a moment before answering. What was Percival's game? He was curious to know; but there couldn't be any harm in doing as he asked. "I can't bring Plunger--he's got something special in hand, but I'll hunt up some of the others, and bring them along with me, if I can." So he ran off, and Paul returned to the dormitory. Half an hour elapsed before he heard the welcome sound of footsteps on the stairs. Harry had succeeded in capturing three out of the five, Sedgefield, Baldry, Viner. They were just as curious as Harry was to know what Paul could want with them. "I'm much obliged to you for coming along," said Paul, "it's really very good of you, considering the dead-set against me. But I wanted to get together the fellows who were here when Viner brought up the bad news about the flag. I wish all six were here, but I must be satisfied with four out of them. At any rate, there's enough of you to remember what I said. I said, you'll remember, that through me the school had eaten dirt." "Oh, yes, we remember that well enough," said Viner bitterly, "because it was so true." "So true; yes, Viner. As your memory's so good on that point, perhaps you can remember what else was said?" "Of course I do. We all do, for one or two of us have laughed over it since. You talked some nonsense about the school suffering through you, and through you being lifted up again." "And that you meant getting the flag back again, and putting it in its old place on the turret," added Sedgefield. "You're right, Viner, and so are you, Sedgefield. I'm glad you remember things so well. I made that promise, uncertain whether or not I should be able to carry it out, but determined to do my best. Well, by God's help, I'm able to keep my word." To the profound amazement of the boys, he drew out the flag. "Where did you find it? Where did you get it from?" cried Viner. Harry did not speak. He could only stare at the flag. Was it really the old flag? There could be little doubt about that. How, then, had Percival come by it? Had he stolen a march upon Plunger and the others? "Where did I get it from? Well, that's my secret for the present. I've got the flag, and kept my promise. Now I want you to mount with me to the turret, so that we can put it back again in its old resting-place." He waved the flag over his head, and Baldry and Sedgefield gave a cheer. Harry echoed the cheer in a dazed, bewildered fashion. He had not yet recovered from his surprise. Viner remained silent. They followed Paul to the turret, where once again the flag was placed on the summit with another cheer. Meanwhile Plunger was inside the shed, awaiting with no small trepidation the arrival of the "Mystic Brethren." He had not long to wait before six of the masked brethren entered. The foremost of these was Mellor, followed by five of his companions. They had put on their masks outside the door, so that Plunger was just as much in the dark as to who they were as ever. "Gargoyle with the eyebrows, greeting!" exclaimed Mellor. "Greeting," repeated the other masks, bowing. "Now, then, greet," came a peremptory cry, as Plunger received the point of two or three knees in different parts of his body, which sent him staggering round the circle. It revived painful memories of a similar performance on his part on a previous occasion, and he hastily stammered out, "Gr-gr-greeting," and jerked his head in imitation of the brethren. "We are glad thou hast obeyed the call; but where is thy brother novice--Henry Moncrief?" "He--he's otherwise--engaged," stammered Plunger, not knowing what to say. "Otherwise engaged! Know this, Gargoyle with the wiry thatch, no engagement should keep him from answering the call of the Mystic Brethren. It shall be inquired into." As he spoke, Plunger saw, with fear and trembling, that one of the number had drawn from the box the weapons he so well remembered--the sticks with bladders attached to the ends. He guessed what was coming, and it came. "Describe the Mystic Circle!" cried Mellor. It was useless resisting. Down flopped Plunger on his knees and hands, and crawled round the ring as quickly as possible three times, while the bladders showered upon his head with amazing rapidity. Then the brethren joined hands, and galloping wildly round him, repeated as before: "Beetles of the Mystic Band Wind we round thee, hand in hand; Whene'er thou hear'st thy chieftain's call, Rest not, pause not, hither crawl, Or to the realms of Creepy-crawly, Shivery-shaky we will haul thee." And once again, to the strains of this extraordinary incantation, Plunger was sent whirling about the ring from side to side, as though he were an indiarubber ball. The last time two of them--Harry and himself--divided honours; but this time Plunger had it all to himself. Owing to this fact the brethren were able to give him their sole and undivided attention, and they did it with such effect that Plunger began to wonder whether he was himself or someone else. "Dost thou like the Mystic Circle?" inquired Mellor, when they paused. "Oh, y-y-yes," stammered Plunger, with a painful attempt to laugh, "very much." And then he added quickly, as he saw the uplifted bladders ready to descend: "But--but if you've got any more of it, you might keep it for my brother novice." "It shall be as thou askest, Gargoyle with the eyebrows," said Mellor. "And now to business." "To business? Do they call what I've just gone through pleasure?" thought Plunger, as he waited in fear and trembling what was to come next. "Thou belongest to the Third Form?" Plunger nodded. "A wonderful scholar art thou, Gargoyle with the wiry thatch," was the cutting comment. "Oh, I could be much higher in the school," exclaimed Plunger, blushing to the roots of the "wiry thatch"; "but I don't like the boys in the upper Forms, you know. They put too much side on for me." "You look a modest, retiring kind of fellow. That's the reason the Mystic Brethren have taken such a fancy to thee." Down came the bladders on Plunger's back as tokens of brotherly affection. Plunger felt flattered at this testimony of the brethren to his virtues, but he wished at the same time they had expressed it in some other way. "It's very kind of you," he gasped. "Though thou dost despise the bounders of the Upper Form, peradventure thou wouldst not mind taking a small present from the Mystic Brethren of the Fifth?" "A present?" repeated Plunger, pricking up his ears. "Not at all. Shall be delighted to make myself useful." "Let me see. The head boy of the Fifth is one named Hasluck, is he not, wearer of goggles?" "Yes." "Is there not also in that same Form one named Leveson, famous timekeeper, owner of a stop-watch?" Plunger nodded, marvelling at the accuracy of the brethren's information. At a sign from Mellor, one of the masks, who was no other than Crick, left the circle, and brought from the corner of the shed a long parcel, wrapped in American leather-cloth--a facsimile, in fact, of the parcel which Paul had received from Wyndham a little earlier. "Give this to Hasluck, in the presence of the timekeeper Leveson and as many other menials of the Fifth as thou canst find. It is a souvenir from thy brethren to celebrate thy initiation to the Mystic Order. Dost thou understand?" Fluttering with excitement, Plunger clutched the parcel, and declared that he understood perfectly. He had not got far on the homeward road before he was rejoined by his companions, who had been lying in wait for him behind the friendly shelter of a hedge. "I've got it!" he gasped. "Got what?" demanded Newall. "The flag!" he cried, flourishing the precious parcel. "Bravo, Plunger!" exclaimed Newall. "Hurrah!" shouted Parfitt. "How did you get it?" "Presented to me in honour of my initiation to the Mystic Order." "Let's have a look at it." "It mustn't be opened till we get to the school. Hasluck's got to open it, in the presence of Leveson." As Plunger had faithfully followed out their instructions, they could not very well object to this condition, so they ran by his side, questioning him by the way as to what had happened to him in his absence. Plunger answered to the best of his ability, colouring considerably the part he had played in the ceremony, and the esteem in which he was held by the brethren. "Why--why, what's that?" exclaimed Stanley, coming to a dead stop. The others did the same. Their eyes followed his to the turret. There was the old flag flying from the top! Plunger turned pale; then a sickly hue went over his face as he looked from the flag to the parcel in his hand. CHAPTER XLI FRIENDS IN COUNCIL Plunger's bewilderment was shared by his companions as they saw the old flag fluttering on the turret. What had happened? How on earth had it got there? Newall's hand went out to Plunger's ear. "Thought you said you'd got the flag, ass?" "Oh, oh, oh! Le' go my ear!" roared Plunger, as he gazed first on the turret, then on the mysterious parcel in his hand. He firmly believed that the Mystic Brethren had given the flag into his care, that it was inside the parcel when he had set out from the shed, but that by some magical influence it had managed to transfer itself from the parcel to the turret. Yet there was something still inside the parcel without a doubt. What was that something? "Yes, bounder!" exclaimed Parfitt, helping himself to the other ear. "Got the flag--that's what you told us! Presented to you in honour of your initiation! What's your game, blockhead?" "Oh, oh, oh! Le' go my ear! That flag up there must be a beastly fraud, or there must be two of 'em! Le' go my ear, will you!" Plunger began to think that the sympathetic attention he had received at the hands of the enemy was only to be equalled by the polite attention of his friends. "Didn't you say you'd got the flag in that parcel, Plunger?" asked Stanley, in a quieter tone, because he detested bullying himself, and did not like it practised on others. "Yes, I did, Moncrief!" persisted Plunger. "That's a twin up there, or an imitation, or something of the sort. Get Hasluck and Leveson, and I'll prove it to you." "We're not going to wait for Hasluck or Leveson! You've gammoned us enough! Give it up!" Newall snatched the parcel from Plunger's hand. It was carefully bound round with cord. Too impatient to untie it, Newall severed the cord with his knife. As he did so a small bundle of "swishers"--long sticks, such as were used by the boys of St. Bede's for "beating the bounds"--fell from the cloth. They were bound round in turn with a sheet of white paper, and on this paper was written in a bold hand: "Your dull ass will only go with beating. You've provided the ass. We've provided the swishers. We deliver both safely into your hands. Times to be called by the Gargoyle--Leveson--with the stop-watch." Disappointed though they were, the boys standing around Plunger burst into laughter. Plunger had been skilfully hoaxed. Under the impression that he was carrying the flag, he had delivered into their hands the formidable-looking swishers, with precise directions as to the method in which they were to be employed. Plunger's self-assurance for once gave way. Where was he standing? He scarcely knew. The ground was crumbling under his feet. "Well, Plunger, if you don't take the cake, and the bun, and the biscuit!" came the cutting voice of Newall. "My word, how the Beetles must be sniggering at you! The flag, didn't you say?"--holding up the swishers. "Oh, oh, it's too funny! Given in honour of your initiation to the Mystic Order! Oh, oh! Help yourself, Parfitt; help yourself, Moncrief!" He tossed them a swisher each, and selected one for himself, the quality of which he tested by flipping it in the air, much too near the crestfallen Plunger to be pleasant. "Thanks, Newall!" said Parfitt, putting the swisher he had received to a similar test on the other side of Plunger. "Wasn't to be opened till you got to the school, was it, Plunger, in the presence of Leveson--eh?" "Yes, in the presence of Leveson!" repeated Newall grimly. "Cut and find him, Plunger, and tell him to be sure and bring his stop-watch." Down came the swishers--twice, thrice. Plunger did not require any second bidding. He did "cut." His speed would have astonished himself had he had time to think about it, but he hadn't. His one great desire was to put as great a distance as possible between himself and Newall and Parfitt. Moncrief major had been more considerate of his feelings, and had not made use of his swisher. "Where can I hide myself," panted Plunger--"where?" He was not only sore and wounded in spirit, but in body as well. And here perhaps it is necessary to add a brief word of explanation as to how it was Plunger came in possession of the extraordinary parcel which had drawn upon him so much ridicule. When, with much reluctance, Mellor and his friends had given up the flag to Wyndham, they decided, by way of compensation, to prepare a parcel that closely resembled it. If the flag had been taken from them, they did not wish to be defrauded of their due share of sport at the hands of the enemy. So the note had been sent from the "Mystic Brethren," which, by a roundabout method, had drawn Plunger to the shed. What followed has been seen. To return to the scene outside Garside. So soon as Newall and Parfitt had ceased chasing Plunger they turned to Stanley. "You don't seem to be enjoying the fun, Moncrief?" said Parfitt. "No; can't quite see where the fun lies," answered Stanley gravely. "Seems to me that Plunger's not the only ass that wants beating. We might use those sticks very well on ourselves. We've been just as much sold as he has. We've been on a fool's errand. We were going to bring the flag back, and the flag's come back without us." "Yes; the flag's come back, sure enough," answered Newall. "And how the dickens did it come back?--that's the puzzle. Hallo! There's your young cousin. He ought to know something about it. Moncrief--Moncrief minor!" he shouted. Harry, who was crossing the grounds at the time, turned in answer to the shouts and came towards the three boys. "Got the flag?" he asked innocently. "No cheek, kid, else we'll trounce you like we've just trounced your friend Plunger!" retorted Newall sharply. "Who brought the flag back? How did it get there?"--glancing to the turret. "Oh, it got there by a friend of yours--Paul Percival," answered Harry, hitting back. "He's beaten you, just like you've beaten my friend Plunger." Newall scowled, and would have treated him to a taste of the swisher, only he recollected that he was Stanley's cousin. "Be serious, Harry," said Stanley. "Percival, did you say? Do you really mean that the flag was brought back by him?" "I am serious, Stan--never more so in my life. The flag was brought back by Percival, and put in its old place on the turret by Percival." He then told them precisely what had happened. The three boys listened in silence. Percival had stolen a march upon them, that was quite clear. Stanley wondered whether his note of warning had put him on his guard. The thought that it had been of some service might have pleased Stanley, but the memory of Percival talking to Wyndham hardened his heart against him once more. He smothered the old feeling of friendship that would keep trying to assert itself, in spite of himself. "I told you that we should have to meet craft with craft!" cried Newall, breaking the silence. "But so far Percival has beaten us. Plunger's an ass, but he was quite right for once when he said that we'd have to get up very early in the morning to score off Percival. What's our next move?" As neither Moncrief major nor Parfitt responded, Newall went on: "We saw Percival talking to a particular friend of yours, Moncrief." Stanley winced at the cold, cutting words. "That was a couple of hours ago. At that time the flag was not on the turret. We can all answer as to that, I think?" Stanley and Parfitt nodded assent. "What happens? In the interval Percival returns to Garside with the flag. Where did the flag come from? I think the answer's simple enough--it must have come into Percival's possession by the help of your particular friend, the Beetle who was so kind to you at the sand-pits, Moncrief." Every word had its venom, and distilled its poison in the breast of Stanley. "Well, well, what of it?" he demanded hoarsely. "What of it?" repeated Newall, raising his eyebrows and regarding him with feigned astonishment. "It's all clear enough, I should think. The whole business is an artfully-concocted plot between Percival and Wyndham. The flag disappears. How it disappears is a mystery. No one knows--least of all Percival. But he makes use of some high-sounding words in the presence of a few of the fellows--flag gone, by Heaven's help he'll bring it back again! The fellows cheer him to the echo. A short time elapses, during which the mystery deepens; then Percival turns up with the flag. He has kept his word. More cheers. Oh, yes, it's all clear--clear as day! Don't you think so, Moncrief?" "One moment," answered Stanley, passing his hand over his forehead. "I'm a bit dazed somehow. Let me understand. You believe that--that----" "That the hand which brought back the flag is the same hand that took it away." "Of course!" assented Parfitt. "As you say, Newall, it's as clear as day. Nothing could be clearer." "Nothing could be clearer," echoed Stanley, as his head fell to his breast. Harry was silent. Like his cousin, there had always been deep down in his heart a real affection and sympathy for Paul. He had always hoped that he would be able to reinstate himself in the good opinion of the school; so it was he had cheered with the rest when Paul returned with the flag. It was all very mysterious, it was true; but Harry had shut his eyes on the mystery. The flag had come back to the school. Paul had brought it. He had made good his word. That was enough. He would be again the Paul he had once known--the Paul Stanley had known and loved. "What's to be done?" demanded Stanley. "Well, we can't do anything to-day. Let's wait developments to-morrow. Mr. Weevil's bound to take some sort of action." "Oh, there you go again!" cried Stanley impatiently. "Putting things on. Yesterday it was the same." "How do you mean?" "I wanted to make straight for Percival. 'No,' said you; 'don't be in a hurry. We mustn't show our hands too soon.' And so on, and so on. Oh, I'm sick of it all--sick of everything--sick of waiting!" Harry looked up at his cousin. There was a note of passionate revolt in his voice, a fierce light in his eyes; both hands were clenched, and he seemed to sway to and fro, as though no longer master of himself. "For that matter, so am I," said Newall softly. "Perhaps I was wrong, Moncrief, in putting things off. I dare say I was. You gave in to me yesterday, I give in to you to-day; that's only fair. What do you want, old fellow?" Newall placed a hand quite lovingly on Stanley's shoulder. "Want? No more of this wretched waiting game! Let's go to Percival straight--straight! Do you hear?" came hoarsely from Stanley's lips. "Yes, I hear; and I am with you." And Newall exchanged a swift smile of triumph with Parfitt. CHAPTER XLII UNEXPECTED TIDINGS As soon as Paul had accomplished his purpose, and seen the flag waving in its old place on the turret, he went to the room of Mr. Weevil. He knew well enough that inquiries would be made respecting the return of the flag, and therefore he took the straightforward course of going at once to headquarters. "Come in!" came the voice of the master in response to the knock on his door. He was pacing to and fro the room--the same room in which Paul had seen him on that never-to-be-forgotten night with Zuker. He stopped as Paul entered, and regarded him in his usual manner--through half-closed eyes. "You, Percival! What is it you want with me?" came the sharp answer. "I only came to tell you that the flag is back in its old place, sir." "I know--I know! And you brought it back, I understand? I meant inquiring into the matter. I'm glad you've forestalled me. You want to explain--eh? That's what you've come for--eh?" "That's what I've come for, sir," answered Paul, astonished that he should have gained such speedy information as to what had happened. Sometimes, indeed, it seemed as though those half-closed eyes not only saw further than other eyes, but that they had the faculty of double sight as well. "And yet I don't know whether I can call it an explanation, for there are things which cannot be explained." "Not explained? How do you mean, sir?" came the sharp answer. "I received the flag back from a friend of mine--a proved friend--on the solemn promise that I would not make use of the information he had given me to get any of the fellows who had taken it into a scrape." "Why did you make that promise?" "Because it was the only way of getting the flag back." "And that is all the information you can give me?" "That is all, sir." "And you call it an explanation? Really, sir, it is one of the most extraordinary I have ever heard! And you expect me to accept it?" demanded the master, facing Paul, and looking him fully in the eyes. "I trust so, sir, because I can give no other--have no other to give." Mr. Weevil did not at once answer, but took two or three more turns across the room. "I believe you to be a lad of honour, Percival," he said, stopping once more, "and a lad of sense. Let me put it to you, then, as a lad of honour and of sense. Supposing I am perfectly ready to accept your statement, do you really believe that the school will be as ready to accept it?" "The school might be curious to know more, sir, but if you accept my explanation as sufficient, I don't see why anybody should question it." "Yes, yes; that might be well enough. But there have been one or two rather mysterious things that have happened within the last month or two which have never been cleared up. There was the breaking open of my desk, for instance, and the torn pages in the Black Book." "I could mention a still greater mystery that wants clearing up," thought Paul, as his mind went back to the afternoon when he had seen the master enter the strange hiding-place of Zuker. "The culprit in that case has never been found out. It still remains a mystery," continued Mr. Weevil. "Then came the mysterious disappearance of the flag, and its equally mysterious return. The school will be getting suspicious--uneasy. If no better explanation is forthcoming than that you have given me, suspicion will grow--I am certain of it." Paul saw that the master was right. Still, he had no intention of giving up his secret. "I have given my word, sir," he answered firmly. "You would not have me break it?" "You said that you have received the flag from a friend, if my memory serves me--a proved friend?" "Yes, sir." "May I ask in what way his friendship has been proved?" How could Paul answer him? How could he tell the man before him in what way Wyndham had proved his friendship to him? Suddenly, it flashed into Paul's mind that the bold course was the best. "When I was home last vacation, sir, a gentleman had an accident with his horse. He asked me to take a packet for him to Mr. Moncrief, the father of Moncrief minor. I took the packet. On the way I was set on by two ruffians. I got away from them, but they followed me, and would have got the packet from me had it not been for the friend I speak of." Mr. Weevil's eyes began closing as Paul was speaking. When he finished they opened again. "What did this friend do?" "Hid me till the ruffians had gone." "Good! And that enabled you to get the packet to Mr. Moncrief?" "Yes, sir." "Excellent! But, do you know, Percival, this really seems a stranger story than the other." "Perhaps so, sir; but I can prove every word of it, if you like. By your permission, I will send for Mr. Moncrief----" "No, no; that is altogether unnecessary!" said the master quickly. "Strange though the story is, I accept every word of it--every word. The friend you speak of was indeed a friend in need. You must keep your word to him--it would be an act of baseness to break it. I did not know the facts, you see. You may leave the rest to me." Paul's heart bounded joyfully. The bold course had been the right one. It had succeeded where a weaker course might have utterly failed. "Thank you, sir. It is very kind of you." Paul was about to withdraw, when the master called him back. "Let me see, there was a letter came for you while you were out. There it is in the rack." Paul took the letter from the rack as Mr. Weevil turned to his books. Again his heart gave a great bound. One glance at it told him who it was from. It was the letter he had been so anxiously awaiting from Mr. Walter Moncrief. "It _is_ for you, isn't it?" Mr. Weevil asked, glancing into the boy's eager face. "Yes, sir," answered Paul, wondering whether the master suspected who it was from or had any knowledge of its contents. He inspected the envelope as he hastened to his dormitory. No; it did not seem to have been tampered with. Mr. Weevil could not have seen its contents. On reaching his room, he tore open the envelope, and read: "My dear Paul,--I received your first letter, but was away from home at the time, so was unable to answer it. Pardon my delay. You need not worry about the man Zuker. I am kept informed as to his movements. "With regard to your master Mr. Weevil, I quite agree with you--I cannot think that he has anything to do with a traitor to his country, though appearances may be against him. At any rate, till anything is distinctly proved, give him the respect due to a scholar and a gentleman. "To turn to other and more agreeable matters. I trust that Harry is getting on well. He seems too busy to write much. And when he does write, it's nothing but 'Plunger, Plunger, Plunger,' from start to finish. You would fancy there was nobody else but Plunger in existence. Tell him that when he can get away from Plunger we shall be very glad to hear from him again. "I know the great friendship there is between you and my nephew Stanley. I only hope that Harry will find as good and worthy a friend. Tell Stanley that he has to come here during next vacation, and bring you with him. I think we shall be able to provide you with plenty of amusement, though I can't promise you it will be of so exciting a kind as you had last vacation.--Your sincere friend, "WALTER MONCRIEF." A great feeling of relief came over Paul when he read the first part of this letter. There was nothing to worry about Zuker. Mr. Moncrief was kept informed of his movements; and yet, and yet----If Mr. Moncrief knew of his movements, why, in the name of wonder, did he not arrest him? But perhaps there were reasons against it. In any case, the answer was satisfactory, and he felt relieved. It was with far different feelings he read the last part of the letter. "I know the great friendship existing between you and Stanley," Paul read again, with sorrow. "I only hope that Harry will find as good a friend." And the message? What was he to do with the message Mr. Moncrief had asked him to deliver to Stanley? He turned the letter over and over in his hand. He must deliver it to him somehow. "Stanley must answer it; not I. I will give it to his cousin." As he passed along the corridor a deep groan came from one of the dormitories. It sounded like some one in pain. He stopped and listened. A few seconds more, and the groaning was repeated. He opened the door softly and looked in. The dormitory was to all appearances empty. "Strange! My ears must have deceived me," thought Paul. He was on the point of retreating when the sound came again to his ears. "No; I wasn't mistaken," he said, stepping softly into the room and closing the door after him. "It was somebody, but who?" He looked round, puzzled. There was no one visible. He stood perfectly still and waited. A few seconds more, and the groaning was repeated. But this time he detected whence it came. It came from under one of the cubicles. He crossed to it and looked underneath. A boy was huddled up on the floor. One glance was sufficient to tell him who it was--it was Master Plunger. "Here. Plunger, come out of that!" Plunger did not attempt to move. "Come out of that, I tell you!" As Plunger still refused to move, Paul took him by the leg and hauled him out. Such a woebegone Plunger it was! His wiry thatch was more dishevelled than usual. The eyebrows seemed to have made a more desperate attempt than ever to invade the territory of the forehead. The self-assurance which had been the distinguishing mark of Plunger's manner had gone. "Le' me go--le' me go!" he groaned. "I want to die!" "Die!" Paul could scarcely refrain from laughing. "There's not much of that about you! You're not one of those whom 'the gods love,' so you'll never die young, Plunger. What have you been up to? I believe you've been smoking." This accusation brought Plunger to a sitting posture on the bed. "I haven't been smoking--I haven't been smoking! It's the flag!" "What about the flag?" "I angled for it, and thought I'd hooked it; but I hadn't. Some other fellow had; so instead of hooking the flag I got a beastly swishing. That's not all. I shall get roasted all round, and, of course, the Two J.'s will be poking fun at me in the 'Gargoyle Record.' I'd like to know who the fellow was who got the flag. Have you heard?" "I have heard, but I haven't time to go into it just now. Your friend Moncrief minor can tell you all about it. Cheer up, Plunger, and don't talk any more about dying." Paul hurried off, leaving Plunger to digest the scanty information he had given him as best he could. "Now for Stan!" he said, as he made his way to the common room, but little dreaming what was there in store for him. CHAPTER XLIII THE STORM BREAKS As Paul approached the common-room, the sound of voices came through the open door, and clear above the hubbub rose the voice of some one making free use of his name. He knew the voice well enough. It was Stanley's. Why were they discussing him? On entering the room, the voices ceased as by magic. Every eye was turned in his direction. Several boys were gathered round the fireplace. Foremost in the group were Newall, Parfitt, and Stanley. "I thought I heard my name?" Paul exclaimed, as he stepped into the room. "Quite right," said Stanley, coming from the group and confronting him. "I've been looking for you." Paul was on the point of saying that he also had been looking for Stanley, but the silence that followed Stanley's words, the concentrated gaze of that group of boys, and, above all, the face of Stanley himself--white, yet with a burning, feverish light in the eyes--kept back the words. "Looking for me?" he repeated. "Yes; I did hope that I should never have to speak to you again, but one or two things that have just happened make me. All the fellows here know how much it's against the grain." Paul's face fell. He had come in search of Stanley with the hope of bringing about a reconciliation. That hope receded in an instant to the far distance. "If it's against the grain, I wonder you should trouble," he could not help answering. "Oh, we have to swallow things we don't like sometimes." Then he broke off into a tone of banter. "So you've brought the flag back to Garside?" Paul did not answer. He was only conscious that the group had drawn closer to him, and that Stanley's eyes were burning at a fiercer heat. It seemed some other than Stanley who was speaking. He had assumed the tone and manner of Newall; but he was forcing himself into a part which did not suit him, so that he acted it badly. "The worst of Percival is that he's so modest. He doesn't know what a smart thing he's done," went on Stanley. "It isn't to be wondered at that the kids of the Third and Fourth have been cheering him like mad. Why should we be left out in the cold, eh?" "Why?" echoed Parfitt. "Let's give him a rouser." Parfitt led off the cheers--cheers which fell with a hollow sound on Paul's ears, for he knew well enough they were only mocking him. "When we hear about a smart thing, we're naturally anxious to know how it was done," jeered Parfitt. "Naturally," echoed Newall, followed by cries of assent from the rest. "Order! Order for Percival!" exclaimed Stanley, holding up his hand for silence. Silence instantly reigned. You might have heard a pin drop as they waited for Paul to speak; but they waited in vain. He neither spoke nor moved. He was not thinking of himself, nor of the boys that stood around him. He had ears and eyes for Stanley, and no other. It was a transformed Stanley--not the Stanley he had once known. "Lost your tongue?" cried Stanley, breaking the silence. "Come, out with it. We can't wait here all day! How did you manage to get hold of the flag? Who had it, and how did you get it back to Garside? Don't be so awfully modest? You've hidden your light under a bushel too long." "The flag is back at Garside," answered Paul firmly, ignoring the taunt. "For the rest you had better ask Mr. Weevil. I don't owe any explanation to you or any other fellow in the Form!" He turned away, but Stanley sprang between him and the door. "That won't do? You do owe us an explanation, and I mean having it!" "You?" There was more of sorrow than anger in Paul's voice, but to the sensitive ears of Stanley, strung to the highest tension, it sounded strangely like contempt. "I! What were you doing with the Beetle we saw you with near the sand-pits this afternoon?" "The Beetle you ran away from, you know," added Newall. "The Beetle you left Moncrief to fight for you!" This wholly unnecessary piece of information sent the scarlet back for a moment into the white face of Stanley. His hands opened spasmodically; then closed in a firmer grip than before. The gibe acted differently on Paul. He recalled that Stanley had really suffered for him; he recalled too, the note of warning that had been left for him in his dormitory. Perhaps, after all, it had been written by Stanley? The Stanley he had once known as a friend. And there came over him the old longing to clasp him by the hand. "I will try to explain to you if you will meet me somewhere alone," he said, drawing near to Stanley, and speaking in a little more than a whisper. "Speak out! I want no secrets!" cried Stanley. "All the fellows in the Form have as much right to hear as I have! What I can hear they can hear! I don't want to go about sneaking and whispering in corners!" Murmurs of applause greeted this expression of opinion. "If that's the way you look at it," answered Paul sorrowfully, "the thing's ended. I've nothing more to say." "But I have, and you must hear--must!" repeated Stanley, with emphasis, as Paul tried to pass him. "It's your honour I'm thinking of, as much as the honour of the school. Do you know what they are saying?" "I don't know or care," came the swift answer. "As for my honour, it can very well take care of itself." "Like it did at the sand-pits," put in Parfitt, amid an outburst of laughter. Paul bit his lip to keep back the angry words that sprang to his tongue. And the gibe went again as a poisoned shaft to the wound that was lying as a canker in the breast of Stanley. "Well, we'll leave your honour out of it, if you don't care to stick up for it. But there's the honour of the school, and do you know what they're saying? They're saying that the flag business was all a dodge--that it's been engineered between you and the Beetle you would not stand up to in the sand-pits!" "Engineered! How do you mean?" demanded Paul, staggered by this fresh accusation. "That it was all arranged between you and the Beetle." "I--I can't quite see. I don't understand. Do you mean----" "Let him have it straight; so that he can't wriggle out of it!" exclaimed Newall, as Paul paused, unable to get out the words that came as a torrent to the lips. "I mean that the theft of the flag was arranged between you and that fellow at St. Bede's; and that it's come back again by the same clever piece of trickery." "Is that what they're saying?" demanded Paul. "That's what they're saying." "And--and--what do you say, Stan?" The name came out in a gulp. Had Stanley only followed his better impulse, he would have answered: "I don't believe it. Though appearances are against you, I cannot believe it. I still have faith in you, as I used to have. We have wandered apart, but Garside has never been what it was since we ceased to speak. I have been unhappy--miserable." But the gibes of Newall and Parfitt were still rankling in his breast. He seemed to feel again the blows of Wyndham on his face. So instead of answering as his better nature dictated, he replied: "I stand by the Form. I say the same." "Then it's a lie--a dirty lie. Let me pass." Paul was choking. It would not so much have mattered what his Form said. He could trust to time to bring them round again; but that Stanley could have believed him guilty of such mean, despicable trickery--there was the sting. Stanley had felt the blows of Wyndham on his face, but that was as nothing to the torture endured at that moment by Paul. It was as a flail cutting deep down into his very flesh. Stanley still barred the way to the door, and did not move. "Let me pass!" came again the hoarse, choking cry. Stanley did not budge. Neither did he answer. He was as dumb, as immovable, and as white as a block of marble. Paul could endure it no longer. He caught him by the arm to turn him aside. His touch started the statue before him into life. As though it were an insult to be wiped out, Stanley struck out blindly with his fist. Paul received the blow full on the face, and fell to the ground like a log. It was a cruel blow. Stanley knew it the moment he had struck his one-time friend, and he would have given all he possessed to have recalled it. But it was too late. "Well hit!" applauded Parfitt, as though Stanley had just made a brilliant drive in the cricket-field instead of striking his best friend. "First knockdown and blood to Moncrief!" exclaimed Newall. "Oh, he's all right, Waterman. He doesn't want any help from you." Waterman, who had been standing in the background, leaning in his usual indolent manner against the most comfortable corner of the fireplace, shook on his lethargy as Stanley struck the blow which felled Paul to the ground, and at once left his favourite spot by the fireplace and went to his assistance. "Hurt, Percival?" he asked as, heedless of Newall's remarks, he wiped away the blood that was trickling down Paul's cheek. Paul had been momentarily dazed by the unexpected blow; but he was strong, and soon shook the feeling off. "Thanks, Waterman. No; I'm not hurt," he whispered, rising slowly to his feet. The boys gathered round. The excitement had grown from the moment Paul had entered the room. From that instant the storm-clouds had begun to gather, and with the blow struck by Moncrief major they had burst. What would happen? "Steady yourself, Percival," whispered Waterman. "So--Are you sure you are all right?" "Quite." Waterman let go his arm. The blood still trickled down Paul's face, but he walked steadily up to Stanley, who had thrown up his arms in defence, as though expecting a return of the blow. "You can put down your hands, Stanley. I'm not going to fight you," said Paul calmly. "He's moulting again--more feathers!" cried Newall. "And aren't they white ones?" added Parfitt. "I'm not going to fight you," repeated Paul, looking Stanley squarely in the face; "but I'll pay you back again--some day." Stanley did not attempt to stop him this time; so Paul made his way back to his room, and sank upon his bed thinking. He had done nothing of which he was ashamed, but the blow of Stanley was burning on his cheek, and he felt wretched, miserable. He had striven for the best, but somehow things had turned out for the worst. Once before when things were at their blackest, there was one who had come to him, and placed a little hand in his; but now there was no one, save the good God above. He was thinking thus, when there was a tap on the door; the door was jerked open with a shoulder; and Waterman, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, strode indolently in--just for all the world as though he were coming to a picnic. CHAPTER XLIV IN THE GARDEN "It's tiring work getting up stairs, especially these stairs--ugh!" said Waterman, as he entered. "If you don't mind, I'll take a seat." And without waiting for Paul to answer, Waterman dropped down, with his hands still in his pockets, beside him on the bed. "It was very good of you to give me a helping hand just now, Waterman." "Oh, humbug! I've got a wretched sort of memory. Fact is, it's too great a fag trying to recollect half the things crammed into you at school, but I seem to have a better memory than most fellows for some things. And there's one thing I can't forget--I can't forget you coming across the ground with that little chap, so like a drowned rat, in your arms. I shall have to be blind, deaf, and silly before I forget it." Waterman spoke in his usual drawling tone, but its underlying note of earnestness was quite unusual. Strange that Paul, too, had just been thinking of Hibbert, but in a scene far different from that to which Waterman had referred. God had been very good to him after all. He had been thinking how utterly lonely he was, and yet a friend--true, a somewhat indolent one--had come to him in his hour of adversity. "And look here, Percival," went on Waterman, "there's something else I remember. I don't know why, you know, but I do." "What's that? Seems to me your memory's improving," said Paul. "Oh, my memory's fairly good when it's not grubbing about amongst Latin roots, or making a fellow bald-headed worrying over problems invented by a fiend calling himself Euclid ever so many years ago. Why the undertakers couldn't have buried them along with old Euclid, or stowed them away with his mummy, is one of those things I could never understand. Then if people wanted to dig them up again, they'd have been in their right place--in the mummy department of the British Museum. Where was I? Oh, on memory. Yes, there's one thing I remember, in spite of the Latin roots and weary old Euclid. I recollect what you told me on that day when you surprised every one by turning tail at the sand-pits. I've kept it to myself all this time. Is it necessary to keep it a secret any longer?" "Yes, Waterman," answered Paul firmly. "Why? Let me set you right with the Form? It'll be an awful fag, I know. Still, the vac's coming on, and one can have a good long rest after one's pulled through." "No, Waterman," said Paul, shaking his head; "I'm not going to curry favour that way. You've been a friend to me--a friend where I least expected to find one. Bear with me a little longer." "But you don't understand the dust that Newall, Parfitt & Co. are kicking up? Can't you see that they've got Moncrief major completely under their thumb? They'll make Garside too hot to hold you." "We'll see. I'm not beaten yet." "Better let me speak," persisted Waterman. Paul shook his head. "I give you up. You are worse than old Euclid!" exclaimed Waterman, plunging his hands deeper into his pockets. With a yawn he strolled towards the door, edged his shoulder round it until he had opened it wide enough for his body to pass through, closed it by a like man[oe]uvre, and with the same measured step went on his way. "After all, I've got one friend at Garside," thought Paul, with a smile, "though he does like to take his time over things." He looked in the glass. His cheek was swollen and bruised. His appearance was very much what Stanley's had been when he had returned from the sand-pits after his encounter with Wyndham. "I hope Stanley is satisfied," he said, smiling grimly at himself in the glass. Then he remembered that he hadn't carried out the purpose for which he had gone to the common room. He had gone there for the purpose of speaking to him about Mr. Moncrief's letter. It was useless to think of doing so now. He would put the letter in his desk till a more convenient season. His hand went to his pocket. The letter had gone! The old feeling came over him that had come over him on the day when he had lost that other letter on his way to Redmead. It had disappeared from his pocket just as mysteriously. He looked around. There was no trace of it in the room. Then he remembered that he had pulled out his handkerchief in the common room to staunch the blood from his cheek. He must have pulled out the letter with it. It would not have mattered much had it been an ordinary letter. But it was not an ordinary one. Far from it. It contained references to Zuker and Mr. Weevil which might cause no end of mischief were it to get into the wrong hands. He did not like the idea of returning to the common room; it was like swallowing a nauseous draught of medicine. Probably the boys were still there, laughing over his discomfiture. Yet, nauseous though the draught was, it had to be swallowed, and it was best to swallow it quickly. So he again descended to the common room. He faintly hoped that it might be deserted, but that hope vanished as he reached the room. This time he heard the voice of Newall. He paused for a moment; then went boldly forward. Stanley had gone--he saw that at a glance; so had most of the others; but Newall, Parfitt, and two or three more had remained, and were evidently discussing recent events. They could not have been more startled had a ghost entered, instead of a being of flesh and blood. Paul searched round the room in the hope of finding some trace of the missing letter, but found none. "Dotty!" came the voice of one of the boys, who had by this time recovered from their surprise at the unexpected return of Paul. "Looking for the courage that oozed out at his heels," sneered Parfitt. "I've lost a letter," said Paul, on whom these facetious remarks were quite lost. "You don't happen to have seen it?" No one answered him. They stared blankly at him. They did not mind speaking at him. Speaking to him was quite a different thing. It was perfectly useless to expect an answer from them; so Paul went out, feeling far from comfortable. He could only hope that no bad use would be made of the letter, supposing it had fallen into their hands. _The Gargoyle Record_ came out next day. Among other items of information were the following: "Old flag back to tower. Brought back by 'two P's' of the Fifth. Great enthusiasm--little waddlers of the Third cheering like lunatics; big cacklers of the Fifth hissing like geese. Mystery in three volumes. Vol. I.--How the flag disappeared from Garside. Vol. II.--Where it went to. Vol. III.--How 'two P's' got it back again. Snorters of the Fifth getting excited. A commission of inquiry into the conduct of 'two P's.' "Rumours of a scrum in common room. 'Two P's' again distinguishes himself. Still living up to his old motto: "He who fights and runs away Will live to fight another day." "What has become of that promising junior whose name rhymes with hunger? Nothing has been seen or heard of him for the last day or two. What has come over him? His native modesty seems to have left him. He has retreated to a back seat. Is he projecting further adventures in desert islands, or giving lessons in punting? Anxious inquiries are being made at the offices of the _Record_. Colonial papers in the neighbourhood of desert islands, please copy." Paul, on reading these paragraphs, knew well enough who was meant by "two P's." They were the initials of his own name--Paul Percival. But his mind was taken from these happenings by a message from the sick-room. Hibbert had been up for a few hours each day, and had pleaded hard with the doctor to be allowed to go out; so the doctor at last gave the nurse permission. On two days the invalid went out with the nurse. On the third day he asked Paul, as a special favour, to take him out. Paul willingly consented, only too pleased to feel that he could be of some help to him again. There was one favourite spot to which the solitary boy used to go when he was well. It was in the garden attached to the schoolhouse, apart altogether from the playing-fields. It was marked "Private," and the boys, as a rule, were not allowed there. It was chiefly used by the masters. It was because it was so tranquil, so different from the playing-fields, and because the sun seemed to linger around this old garden longer than anywhere else, that the dreamy boy loved it, and used to steal there when he was well. "I'm so glad to feel you on my arm again, Hibbert!" said Paul, as he led him to a basket-seat, with cushions, beneath a wide-spreading elm. "I feel better now than I've felt for a long time, Paul. How I must have wearied people lying up there!" He glanced in the direction of the school. "Don't say that, Hibbert. It sounds as though there was no one in the world who cared for you." "I know it sounds ungrateful; but even when we care for people, we must get weary of them when they're ill a long time. I don't mean you, but the nurse, and doctor, and--other people." Paul knew that Hibbert was thinking chiefly of his father, who, absorbed in his own schemes, had only been to see him once since his illness--on that afternoon when Mr. Weevil had introduced him to Zuker. To turn the boy's mind from these sad thoughts, Paul told him some of the latest exploits of Plunger, winding up with his recent discovery of him under the bed in his dormitory. Hibbert was amused and interested. "Plunger's a funny lot. He makes me smile to think of him. I hope he's never worried himself much about that raft accident?" "Plunger's not the sort of fellow to worry himself much about anything for long; but he's often asked me about you." "I was thinking a good deal about what happened on the raft last night. I could not sleep for thinking of it; and then, when I went to sleep, I dreamed--dreamed that my mother was standing by me all in white. She was smiling down at me, and held out her arms to me. I tried to get to her, and in trying to get to her I awoke. Do you know, I was so disappointed! The dream was better than the awaking. I so wished my mother had lived, for then you would have known her, Paul. I'm sure you would have liked her, and that she would have liked you. But perhaps it is best as it is." "I'm sure it's for the best, though it seems hard to say so. Everything is for the best, Hibbert. We don't see it, because we're only blind people leading the blind. But God sees, and God knows. That's what my mother has told me so often that I've never forgotten it. It has helped me a lot--more than I can tell you. You've talked about your mother, let me tell you a little about my own." And Paul talked to Hibbert about his own mother. The boy listened eagerly, with one hand resting in Paul's, a smile upon his lips. Suddenly he drew a deep sigh of content; the fragile head fell back upon the chair; the hand in Paul's grew suddenly cold. Paul looked into the boy's face. The smile still hovered about his lips, but he saw something in the face he had never seen there before. "Hibbert!" he cried. But there was no response. Paul gently withdrew his hand and ran to the house. He met Sedgefield, and sent him for the nurse, while he hurried back to Hibbert. The little fellow was still lying back in the chair. A wren had perched itself lovingly upon his shoulder, but Hibbert knew nothing of its presence. He was fast asleep--in the long, last sleep that knows no waking. CHAPTER XLV HOW THE VOTE WAS CARRIED Hibbert's death caused a lull in the storm that recent events had raised at Garside. Notwithstanding his illness, it was thought that he was getting better. It came, therefore, with a shock to the school when he was found sleeping that afternoon in the garden. The little fellow was laid to rest in a country churchyard, at some distance from the school, by the side of the mother whom he had so loved. No one in the school, with the exception, perhaps, of Mr. Weevil, missed him so much as Paul did. He had a great pity for Hibbert, and that pity had grown to love. He never forgot that last scene in the garden--in the warm sunshine, with the shadows creeping over it, and the Great Shadow of all drawing nearer and nearer, until it at last rested on the boy's head. Nor did he forget the interview he afterwards had with Mr. Weevil, when, with tones that were strangely uneven for Mr. Weevil, he had questioned him about all that Hibbert had said in those last moments before he had fallen asleep. When Paul told him what the boy had said about his mother--of his dream, and the awakening--the master's eyes blinked as he had never seen them blink before. "Ah! He has his wish; he is with her--with his mother," said the master, as one speaking to himself rather than to Paul. "He is at rest and--happy." Then he remained silent for so long, as one buried in deep thought, that he seemed to have quite forgotten the presence of Paul. Paul knew of whom he was thinking; that he, too, was thinking of the boy's mother--the sister whom he had loved and reverenced; so he stole quietly from the room. During this time Paul saw nothing of Hibbert's father. He wondered whether he was still carrying on his schemes in the cave, or whether the death of his son had altered his plans in any way. In any case, Paul felt no cause for alarm. The letter of Mr. Moncrief had removed all cause for anxiety. None the less he could not help feeling anxious as to what had become of the letter itself. Where had it gone to on that day it had fallen from his pocket? Into whose hands had it fallen? Had it fallen into the hands of the enemy, Newall and his lot? If so, what use were they making of it? He was still left pretty much to himself, so he was able to put the finishing touches to his essay on "The Invasion of Great Britain," a subject, as the reader knows, which had occupied some share of his time and attention. Then the essay was sent in with others for the competition. The breach between him and Stanley, as may be imagined, had not been lessened by what had happened between them in the common room. Stanley avoided him as much as possible, and they never spoke. After the momentary lull in the storm caused by the death of Hibbert, it broke out again more violently than ever. This was due to the fact that Mr. Weevil had made no inquiry, or seemed to have made no inquiry, into the circumstances which had brought about the return of the flag. Newall and his parasite Parfitt said it was a disgrace to the school. Thus the storm, which had momentarily lulled, broke out with fresh vigour. While it was at its height, the Fifth once more assembled in the Forum. Hasluck presided, as usual, and the rest of the Form, with one exception--Paul--were present. Arbery and Leveson guarded the door against invasion from "the little beggars of the Third and Fourth." Hasluck mounted the rostrum, and brought his mallet down with a bang as a signal that the meeting had commenced. "Now then, you fellows, order! I'm not going to spout a lot----" "Couldn't if you tried!" put in Devey. "Look here, Devey, are you in the chair, or am I? If you don't keep quiet, I'll chuck the mallet at you," said Hasluck, raising it threateningly. "As I said before, till I was interrupted by an ass braying, I'm not going to spout a lot. What we've got to do is to get to business, and most of you know what that business is." "Hear, hear, hear!" "Most of you were present in the common room when certain charges were made against Percival by Moncrief major. He told Percival to his face that the flag business was all a dodge; that it was engineered between him and the champion of the Beetles. Percival denied it; but you know what happened after that. Moncrief struck him, and Percival went away with his tail between his legs just as he did at the sand-pits. We were all disgusted----" "All!" echoed the others, with the exception of Waterman, who was reclining languidly on a box, apparently quite unconcerned in what was going on. "We were all disgusted, and decided to take some action which would bring matters to a point. Unfortunately, Hibbert died just then, and we could do nothing. We were obliged to wait a decent interval. The time for waiting's past." (Cheers.) "We've got to get to business. Moncrief major will explain." Stanley, with white, set face, was standing between Newall and Parfitt. After the charge he had made against Paul at Newall's instigation, and the blow that had followed it, he had been forced into a position from which it was impossible for him to retreat. First he had been adroitly forced into the position of being Paul's accuser; and now, with no less adroitness, he had been compelled to take a step which struck more cruelly at his friend. "Oh, I haven't much to explain," he said, in a thick, unnatural voice. "As Hasluck has said, we all decided to take action after what happened in the common room. Hibbert's death prevented us. I think you know what that action is. We're going to call upon the Head to expel Percival from the school." A loud cheer greeted this announcement. There could be no doubt as to the feeling of the Form, and that Stanley had voiced it. "Move, move!" came from several of the boys, when the cheers had subsided. "Yes, we must have everything in order," said Hasluck. "It's about the first time that we've ever called upon the masters to expel a fellow." Stanley hesitated. How was it possible for him to strike at Paul again--this time behind his back! "Get on--move! What are you stopping for?" demanded Parfitt, nudging him with his elbow. "I'll back you up." "Get on," repeated Newall, nudging him from the other side. "I--I move," said Stanley, in faltering tones, "that we call upon the Head to expel Percival from the school." "And I second!" cried Parfitt. "And I support!" exclaimed Newall. "Hands up for!" demanded Hasluck. "One minute before you vote," came the languid voice of Waterman, as the hands shot up. "You don't want to be in such a hurry. It's bad for the nerves. People in a hurry have fits. They get themselves into knots and tangles which take no end of time to get out of, and leave them with a lovely headache into the bargain. That's what you're going in for--fits, tangles, headaches. I gave Moncrief major credit for sense. You're not going to follow his lead, are you?" The arms that were held up fell. The boys stared at Waterman in astonishment. It was not often that he took the trouble to speak at these meetings, but when he did it was usually to the point. "Of course we are. Why shouldn't we?" exclaimed Parfitt. "You'll be bigger asses than I took you for--and that's saying a good deal, you know--if you do. I didn't hear all that took place after Moncrief struck Percival. The atmosphere was getting bad, you see, and I don't like breathing bad atmosphere, if I can help it; so I don't know what passed between you fellows. I've no doubt it was something choice, and that I lost a great deal; so perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me why Percival's to be expelled." This demand on Waterman's part, made in the most innocent manner, was met with howls of derision. They could never quite tell from Waterman's manner whether he was serious or poking fun at them; but this time it seemed quite clear that he could only be poking fun. "Yes, that's very musical," proceeded Waterman calmly, when the howling had subsided. "I couldn't do better myself, if I tried. You're going to expel Percival because you believe he engineered the flag. That's it, isn't it?" (Cries of assent.) "Good! I like to get at things," retorted Waterman, still keeping his languid position on the box. "Engineering the flag means--what? It means that Percival, by trickery, got it away from Garside. Is that it?" "Yes, yes!" came the approving shout. "Well, vote as you like. Here's one that's going to vote against you." "Why? What's your reason?" "Because I happen to remember what happened on the day the flag was lost. Seems to me most of you have forgotten." Waterman had started up from his languid position on the box; his face had lost its wearied, languid expression, and had become quite animated. "I haven't, and never shall, though I never pretend to remember things; they're so beastly uninteresting, as a rule. This wasn't. That's why I remember, I suppose. Well, on the afternoon the flag was lost I was going from the school, when I nearly ran full tilt against a fellow who was carrying a little chap, dripping wet, in his arms. The fellow was Percival; the little chap was Hibbert. You know what happened, though you seem to have forgotten it. Percival, at the risk of his own life, saved the little chap from the river." Stanley's head fell to his breast. The scene came to him as Waterman was speaking. Had he not met Paul on that day staggering along with his burden? Had he not avoided him, when he might have given a helping hand? "What's that to do with it?" demanded Newall. "Supposing Percival did pull the youngster out of the river, what's that to do with the flag?" "What's that to do with the flag!" repeated Waterman. "It's this to do with it--how could Percival be playing tricks with the flag, and fishing at the same time a poor little chap out of the river? Besides, would a fellow who'd done a splendid thing like that stoop to such a mean thing as the other?" "Yes," retorted Newall boldly. "A fellow who would turn tail like he did at the sand-pits, and again in the common room, would do anything. It's you who forget, Waterman. We've asked Percival for an explanation. If he's innocent, why doesn't he explain?" "I don't know, and what's more, I don't care. What I've seen of Percival is quite good enough for me." "Vote, Vote!" cried Parfitt. "We don't want any more twaddle." Hasluck brought down his hammer as a signal that discussion was at an end. Then he put the motion moved by Stanley--"That the Form call upon the Head to expel Percival from the school." Stanley would have voted against his own proposal had it been possible. But it was impossible; so his hand went up with the rest--all save one. "Against!" cried Hasluck. Up went the hand of Waterman, amid the derisive cheers of those around him. "Phew! The atmosphere of this place is getting beastly, just like the common room on the day when the shindy was. Phew! I don't wish to be unpolite, but I'm sure you fellows won't mind if I get out of it." And thrusting his hands into his pockets, Waterman sauntered out. * * * * * So the vote was carried that Paul Percival should be expelled from Garside. CHAPTER XLVI WATERMAN DOES A STRANGE THING For one who had professed himself as beastly hot and fagged, Waterman did a strange thing after he had left the Forum. He walked with a speed that was simply amazing for him in the direction of St. Bede's; and what was still more remarkable, he did not stop until he had reached it. None of the Beetles were about at the time, but he had not long to wait before he caught sight of one of the junior form. "Will you tell Wyndham I wish to see him--as quickly as possible." The boy stared at him, as Murrell had stared at Paul when he had visited St. Bede's. It was not till he had repeated his message that he seemed to comprehend. "Quick, there isn't much time to lose!" exclaimed Waterman, as though it were a matter of life and death. Then the boy hurried off, and a minute or two later Wyndham appeared. Waterman was unknown to him; so that he was just as much astonished at seeing him as the smaller boy had been. "I'm a Gargoyle, you can see that. My name's Waterman, and I've come here about a fellow named Percival. Spare me the fag of explaining too much." "Percival! What about him!" demanded Wyndham, at once interested. "There's a strong movement on foot to get him expelled from Garside. It's chiefly over the flag. His best friend, or one who was, has turned against him; and things are looking as black for Percival as they can look. I'm afraid that he'll get the worst of it, unless something's done. I can do nothing; so I've come to you. There's some beastly mystery about the whole business. Percival won't explain because of somebody else, and that somebody else is you. I'm certain you won't see Percival kicked from Garside, if a few words from you will set things right." "Kicked from Garside!" exclaimed Wyndham. "Tell me what happened?" Waterman, feeling that the time for speaking frankly had come, told Wyndham all that had happened--from the day Wyndham had fought and conquered Stanley in the sand-pits. They remained a long time in conversation, and when Waterman at length returned to Garside, Wyndham returned with him. In the meantime an interview of a different nature was taking place at Garside. After the meeting in the Forum, Stanley, feeling very wretched, had retreated to his dormitory, where in a few minutes he was joined by his cousin Harry, who was looking just as miserable and uncomfortable. "I say, Stan, is it right what I hear--that Percival is to be kicked out of Garside?" "Well, what if he is? Doesn't he deserve it?" "I don't know. It's a puzzle. I can't make things out. Look at this letter. I picked it up while the shindy was going on between you and Paul in the common room. All the fellows were crowding round you. No one saw the letter but me. Paul dropped it when he was mopping the blood from his face. I ought to have given it back, but I saw that it was father's handwriting; so I sneaked off with it, and read it; and then--then I knew that I'd done a mean thing and did not like to give it back to Paul." He handed Stanley the letter--the letter in which Mr. Moncrief had answered Paul's inquiries about Zuker and Mr. Weevil, and concluded by inviting him and Stanley to Redmead at the next vacation. "What does it all mean?" demanded Stanley, when he had read the letter. "I can't make out. I thought, perhaps, you might be able to throw light on it." "I'm afraid not; but you might leave it with me. I'll think it over." "All right; but I say, Stan, you must do something to prevent Paul being chucked from the school. That's going it a bit too strong. I know whose working that beastly dodge--Newall and his jackal Parfitt." How could Stanley tell his cousin that it was he--Stanley Moncrief--who had actually moved that Paul should be expelled from the school? If it were possible for Stanley to have felt more wretched than he had felt when Harry came to him, he certainly did so when he was once more alone. "I know the great friendship there is between you and my nephew Stanley." Those were the words which stared him in the face. Friendship? What mockery! How had he proved his friendship? By doing his best to get Paul expelled from the school. What would his uncle say to him when he next visited Redmead? It was to show him this letter Paul had doubtless come to him that day in the common room. And he had met him--with a blow. It was dastardly. He must do his best to undo the mischief he had done. Stanley started up, and went to the door; then he paused, and his heart began to harden again. After all, if mischief had been created, Paul was alone responsible. It was he, and not Stanley, who had acted in a dastardly manner. It was he who had run away at the sand-pits, and left him to fight his battle with the beastly Beetle; it was he---- His meditations were cut short by the door being opened, and the entrance of Waterman. "Hallo, Moncrief. The very fellow I've been looking for. Horrid bore looking for fellows. Phew! Close in here, isn't it? You look a bit off. Come for a little stroll. I've got a fellow who's dying for an introduction to you." Waterman slipped an arm through Stanley's, and before Stanley was aware of it, had led him through the door. "A fellow--wants to be introduced to me! What fellow?" he demanded. "Ah, that's it. What fellow? You'd never guess. It's a pleasant little surprise I've got in store for you. Think of all your rich uncles and aunts, and people of that sort. Ha, ha! A pleasant surprise, lovely, delightful. Mustn't spoil it by telling you. Come along." Waterman's reference to uncles at once reminded Stanley of the uncle whose letter he had been reading. Could it be that his uncle Moncrief was paying him a surprise visit? But Waterman did not take him to the visitors'-room. He took him out of the grounds to some elms which flourished not far from the school. Here a boy was leaning against one of the trees. Stanley glanced at him; then turned white. It was Wyndham. "Told you I had a little surprise," said Waterman. "Wasn't I right? I like little surprises--don't you? Explanations are an awful bore. I never like explanations if I can get out of them. Wyndham's got something to tell you. You'll find him very decent for a Beetle." And Waterman vanished with a speed which was really marvellous for him, leaving the two together. The last time they had met face to face they had met as antagonists, and had fought hard. The memory of that time was present to both of them, for neither seemed anxious to break the silence. "Do I understand that you wish to see me?" Stanley presently asked. "Yes; it was kind of you to come." "You needn't compliment me, for I mightn't have come had I known whom I had to meet," answered Stanley coldly. "Waterman misled me." "Anyhow, I'm glad you have come, and so will you be, I think, before you go back. I hope you don't look upon me as an enemy?" "How else can I look upon you? Have you sent for me to mock me?" "That's my last wish. I've sent for you to prevent you doing a great wrong to a friend of yours--Paul Percival." "A friend of mine!" repeated Stanley, scornfully. "Well, one who was your friend, and who, I hope, will soon be your friend again." "You have more reason to be thankful to him than I have," laughed Stanley, bitterly. "He ran away from you, and left me with the work he hadn't the courage to go on with. I know that I didn't come very well out of it, but I didn't run away." "No; you did well--much better than I did. I'm sorry, very sorry, I fought with you. More so, as by fighting you I separated two friends. Often and often I have prayed to be forgiven. It has all been a ghastly mistake." "Mistake? Percival running away--there wasn't much mistake about that, I'm thinking." "That is the greatest mistake of all. All of you put it down to fear of me; but it wasn't--far otherwise. I don't believe that Paul Percival knows what fear is; and you, who were his friend, ought to have known that as well as I do." "So I thought--up till then. After, what could I think? What could any of us think?" "Your best of him, instead of your worst. Haven't you ever suspected the reason why he would not stand up to me?" "Never! Why?" "Blind--blind! Do you remember that Percival on one occasion--during last vacation--helped a gentleman in distress by acting as his messenger?" "Quite well, seeing that that gentleman was my father." "Your father? Yes, that was the gentleman, I believe, for whom Percival did this kindness. He was set upon by the way by two ruffians, but managed to escape. Did he ever tell you how he managed it?" "By hiding down a well." "Right! But there was a boy who helped him to this queer hiding-place. That boy was me!" "You?" "Yes. On the day Percival came to the sand-pits to meet the champion of the Beetles, he little knew whom he was to meet. I knew as little whom I was to meet. He looked upon me as one who had saved his life. How could he fight me? So he turned away." "Why didn't he explain?" asked Stanley. "And give away his secret, or, rather, your father's secret, before that mob of boys? You--you ask that?" "But after----" "After? From what he has told me, he made more than one effort to explain to you, but you would never listen to him." It was true enough. Stanley remembered it all--the effort Paul had made to speak to him immediately after the fight, and later. Everything was now clear. How noble Paul had been! How he had wronged him! He covered his face with his hands. He could not speak. Wyndham respected his silence. At length he placed his hand upon the bowed shoulder. Stanley did not shrink from it. "I'm sorry if I've caused you pain; but it was the only way. Mischief is being done. You must prevent it from going any further." "I will--I will! You can trust me," cried Stanley, fervently. "Paul, Paul, how I've wronged you!" "I'm glad you see that. You will make it up with him--you will be friends with him once more?" "Yes, yes; if he will have my friendship. But I don't deserve it. I deserve kicking. It was kind of you to take so much trouble." Wyndham turned on his heel, but as suddenly turned round again. "Would you mind taking my hand, Moncrief?" he said. Stanley took it in his, and shook it heartily. "Thanks; I am very sorry it was raised against you. But we understand one another better now." Stanley wiped away the mist that had somehow gathered in his eyes, and when he could see clear Wyndham had gone. Then he went in search of Paul, anxious to ask his forgiveness, and undo, as best he could, the mischief that had been done. But he could not find him. He searched everywhere with the same result. And, what was still more astonishing, his cousin was also missing. Night came on, and still Paul and Harry were missing from the school. Mr. Weevil began to get alarmed. It was past ten, and still no news of the missing boys. What had become of them? CHAPTER XLVII IN THE FOX'S HOLE What had become of Paul? What was the cause of his absence from the school? Had he heard of the decision come to by his Form, and instead of waiting to be expelled, had he left of his own accord? That was the view of Newall and others of the Fifth. "About the best thing he could have done," said Parfitt. "It wasn't only the flag business, but there were other things in the background. The Black Book business has never been cleared up, you know." Parfitt made this remark in his most significant manner, with uplifted eyebrows and a shrug of the shoulders. "That's right. Kick a man when he's down," drawled Waterman. "Parfitt's better at a drop kick than any fellow I know." The Third were just as much concerned over the disappearance of Moncrief, jun., as the Fifth were over the disappearance of Percival. Stanley was doubly anxious--anxious for Paul, anxious for his cousin. Could they have gone away together? That was scarcely likely. They were hardly on speaking terms for one thing; and even if the idea of running away from Garside had suddenly come into Paul's head, it was not at all likely that he had induced Harry to run away with him. What, then, had happened? While the school was thus anxiously awaiting news of the missing boys, we will try to explain what had really happened. Paul knew that a meeting of his Form had been called, and that he and his doings were to be discussed, probably censured. When would the time arrive that he might take steps to defend himself? When would his lips be unsealed? How much longer would Mr. Moncrief keep him in suspense, and what had become of Zuker? Unconsciously Paul had strayed from the school to the garden where Hibbert had, not so long since, fallen asleep--in the sleep that knows no waking. He sat for a long time under the tree, thinking of these things, with no one to disturb his thoughts, save the birds that fluttered around him as they used to flutter around Hibbert. What had become of Hibbert's father? Again and again the question came to him, and he could not dismiss it from his thoughts. He thought of the strange circumstance under which he had last seen him--of that weird scene in the cave with the man Brockman. All that had happened at that interview was fixed indelibly on his memory. He could see Zuker tracing with his finger on the chart the passage of the Dutch to the Medway--could hear his voice as he described all that had happened as they broke the chain on the river and advanced on Upnor Castle. Then--then had followed the strange appearance of the master, and the still stranger interview between him and Zuker. Was the cave still there? Often and often a strong desire had seized Paul to go there again, but he had resisted it. Now, however, as he thought of all that had happened on the evening he went there, the impulse grew so strong upon him that he could wrestle with it no longer. He must respond to its call. So, as one under some mighty spell, Paul passed from the garden, and was soon on his way to Cranstead Common. It was beginning to get dusk as he followed the trail along which he had once followed in the footsteps of Mr. Weevil. After travelling some time in the direction of the river, he came to the thickly-wooded part, where the master had disappeared. Searching amongst the brambles, he found the curious division which marked the centre, and placing his hand beneath the bushes as before, he was not long in finding the ring that was attached to the circular opening. Raising it, he entered again the sloping tunnel cut in the sandstone. Though he had only been in that tunnel once before, he had travelled along it so often in imagination since that it seemed to him he was on familiar ground. He had hesitated when he first entered it. He knew not whither it would lead him, what dangers might meet him on the way. He hesitated no longer. Still he walked cautiously, with his hands before him, like a blind man in the darkness, until it began to broaden. Once he thought he heard footsteps behind him, and he came to a sudden pause. Was some one really following him, or was it only the echo of his own footsteps? He listened attentively, but could hear nothing. It was as silent as the tomb. "My ears must have deceived me," he told himself, as he continued his way. Presently he came to that part of the tunnel where a faint film of light penetrated into it, and again the fantastic shadows he had before seen seemed to menace him at every footstep he took. The cave, then, was not deserted. It was still inhabited by some one. Who? Zuker and Brockman--the same tenants as before, or had some one else come into possession? Yes, there was the curtain, partly concealing the main entrance to the cave. To reach it, he crawled on hands and knees as before, and peered through the space between the curtain and the wall. There was no anthracite fire burning this time. It was dimly lighted by one of the lamps suspended from the roof. There was no sign of life. The place seemed deserted. Paul waited for a long time listening. No sound came from the cave. It was as silent as the tomb. But as he listened, he thought that he could again hear the sound of a light step behind him, coming along the path he had travelled. Was it possible that some one else had entered the tunnel? Surely the master had not again followed unconsciously in his footsteps? Paul turned his head and listened, but it was as silent in that direction as the other. "I'm getting as nervous as a kitten," he laughed to himself. "My ears have again deceived me." No one appeared to be in the cave. Mr. Moncrief had said in his letter that he knew about Zuker's movements. Could it have been that he had been arrested? It was just possible. Anyhow, he would like to have a nearer view of the cave. There could be no danger, and if there were, it was worth the risk. So Paul rose from his hiding-place behind the curtain, and stepped cautiously into the cave. The guns and cutlasses were still hanging on the wall, but the models and designs had gone, and the photographic camera had gone from its niche. There was a passage on the other side of the chamber similar to the one through which he had come. "Where does that lead to, I wonder?" thought Paul. There could be no harm in exploring it a little way. He might just as well know where it led to, if it were possible to find out. The information might be useful. Paul was animated with the adventurous spirit of the explorer, which knows no rest until it is satisfied. He crossed to the opening. At the moment he reached it, a figure emerged from the darkness, and confronted him. It was Zuker. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that Paul could not move. He stood there as one rooted to the spot. Before he could move, the man had sprung upon him with the swiftness of a tiger, and seizing him by the throat, dragged him to the light. "You!" he cried. "The boy from Garside. Your name is----" "Paul Percival," gasped Paul, as the fierce grip relaxed. "Paul Percival. _Ach Himmel!_ It is Fate itself." He had in turn shrunk back, as though Paul were no longer a being of flesh and blood, but a phantom. Then he murmured hoarsely to himself: "Weevil was right. The hand of a Higher than man is in it." In the uncertain light he had not at first recognized Paul; but now he saw him, and knew that just as he had once been face to face with the father at a supreme crisis in his life, now he was face to face with the son. Had Paul seized that moment of stupefaction, he might have escaped, but he made no effort. And the moment passed. "Who showed you this place? Who brought you here?" demanded Zuker, himself again. "No one; I found it out myself." "How?" "That is my secret." Zuker's hand went to his breast, to a weapon concealed there. "Be careful how you answer, boy. You're not now in school, and you haven't a school-master to deal with. Is this the first time you've been here?" "No." Zuker started in spite of himself. "Not the first time! How many times have you been here before then, may I ask?" "Once." "_Ach!_ Now I understand. It is through you my plans have been defeated. It is through you my man--_mein_ Brockman--has been arrested. It is through you that I have scarcely dared venture from this hole for two days past. You have been a mean, dirty spy." "As you were to my father when I was a child." The words were upon Paul's lips, but he forced them back. Then aloud, "I've not been a spy. I've told no one." Zuker looked searchingly into Paul's face. "Who has told, then--who has given information to the police, to what is called your Secret Investigation Department--if it is not you?" Paul was silent. He now understood Mr. Moncrief's letter. It must have been Mr. Weevil who had given information to Mr. Moncrief, it must have been he who had kept him informed of Zuker's doings. Mr. Weevil was not a traitor to his country, after all. Nay, it seemed as though he had striven, in his peculiar way, to defend it against traitors. "Silent, eh? I can see what you've told me is false. You have worked against me from the first. It was you who outwitted me once before. It was you who got that packet through to the man who has always stood between me and my plans, the Admiralty man, Moncrief. All would have been over; I should have got all through had it not been for that. _Ach Himmel_, you will not have the chance of blabbing any more secrets! I have you now--tight in the Fox's Hole--and you will not leave it alive. Let me see what your school is good for. I will give you five minutes to get ready for _sterblichkeit_. _Ach_, it is a long word! Do you know what it means?" Paul knew what it meant. It was the German word for mortality. "Thank you," answered Paul simply. "That is longer than my father had when he was called upon to die, and it should be enough for me." Zuker's hand trembled as it fingered the weapon concealed in his breast. Paul closed his eyes, and repeated in a low, yet clear voice: "'Our Father, which art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy Kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth, as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us----" "Halt! Stop!" cried Zuker hoarsely. "You spoke of your father just now--how he died. Tell me quickly how it was." "He was drowned, in saving the life of a man who had robbed him." "_Ach!_ And do you know who that man was?" No answer came from Paul's lips for several seconds, seconds that seemed as hours. Deep silence reigned in the cave, then it was broken by the clear voice of the boy: "Yes; I know who that man was. He called himself Israel Zuker." Zuker could not repress a movement of astonishment as Paul pronounced his name. "Knowing this--knowing that it was through me your father lost his life, you could yet say that prayer--'As we forgive them that trespass against us'? You are as brave as your father was," came hoarsely from his lips. "I could wish no greater praise than that," answered Paul. "But I had not finished. Shall I go on?" "You need not be in so great a hurry. Wait till I tell you. I have one or two more questions to ask you. How did you come to know that I was the man who spied upon your father--the man through whom he lost his life--the man----_Ach!_" He stopped himself suddenly. His brow darkened; the veins stood out in knots upon his forehead. "Fool! Why didn't I guess it? I see it all now. It is your master--it is Weevil who told you. It is Weevil who has betrayed me." His hand went to the weapon in his breast again. "No, you are mistaken; Mr. Weevil has told me nothing. He has not betrayed you." "You are telling me false. You are trying to mislead me. Beware! No one else knew my secret. Who else could tell you?" "I learned it from a little fellow whom I loved as a brother, and who loved me as a brother, too. Alas, he is now dead! We called him Hibbert." "Hibbert--my son!" Zuker's voice softened wonderfully as the words passed his lips; then it hardened again, as he demanded: "How was it my son came to betray me?" "It was after that accident on the river. Perhaps you have forgotten? It was I who helped him back to the school. And the dear little chap was always so grateful for it--always made such an awful fuss about it. That was his way--ever so much too sensitive and grateful. Poor little chap!" Paul brushed the back of his hand quickly across his eyes; and somehow the man did the same. "Well, I was often with him after that," he presently continued. "He felt that he would never get well, I think, and I could see that he suffered a good deal from something he had on his mind. I never guessed what it was; but one night, when I was sitting beside him, he told me that he could not sleep because of it, and he felt that if he didn't speak, God would never forgive him. That's how it was he came to tell me that you, Israel Zuker, were his father." "I see--I see! Now I understand!" Zuker strode across and across the chamber, as though uncertain how to act. At length he disappeared into one of the recesses of the cave, evidently used as a storehouse, and almost as instantly appeared again with a coil of rope in his hands. "For all you did for my son, I spare your life; but I must keep you here for a few hours. My safety depends on it." Paul knew that it was useless to protest. He knew well enough that Zuker had the power of shooting him as a dog, and he was not the man to stand any nonsense. So he allowed himself to be bound; and when he had bound him, Zuker brought out some cushions from the recess, and placed Paul on them. "There! I am making you as comfortable as circumstances will permit," he said. "_Gute nacht_--good-night. Remember Israel Zuker again in your prayers. _Ach!_ it was good of you to be kind to my boy when others so mocked and hated him. Adieu!" With these words, he passed swiftly out by the way he had come. Paul rested for a few minutes, thinking quietly over the strange interview through which he had just passed. It was kind of Zuker to spare his life, but he did not much appreciate the prospect of lying there, bound hand and foot, for several hours--nay, it might so happen that Zuker would never return. His last words had an odd sound. It was difficult to know what he meant by them. He might have an intention of returning, or he might not. Perhaps he was uncertain himself. He knew well enough that he might be arrested at any moment, just as his confederate had been. In that case he (Paul) might lie there, bound hand and foot, for days and nights, gradually getting weaker and weaker, and finally dying of starvation. The prospect was not a very agreeable one. So Paul determined to do his best to free himself of the coils that bound him. He was a strong boy, and struggled might and main to loosen them; but Zuker seemed to have tied them with devilish cunning. Struggle as Paul would, he was unable to loosen them. And the more he struggled, the more the rope cut into his flesh. "My! The tightest knots I've ever struck," said Paul, as he lay back gasping. "Paul!" What was that? An echo, or some one calling him by name? "Paul!" There it was again. Surely it was some one calling him. He tried to turn his quivering limbs in the direction whence the voice came. Was he awake or was he dreaming? The figure of a boy was creeping towards him--creeping, as it seemed to him, from the shadows in the tunnel. Who--who was it? Was it really a being of flesh and blood? At first it seemed to him that it must be the wraith of the little fellow about whom he had been speaking--Hibbert--but even as the thought filtered through his mind the boy was kneeling beside him, looking anxiously into his face. It was Moncrief minor. "Harry!" cried Paul in amazement. "Are you all right?" came in a whisper from the boy. [Illustration: "THE BOY WAS KNEELING BESIDE HIM,--IT WAS MONCRIEF MINOR.... 'ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?' CAME IN A WHISPER FROM THE BOY."] "Right enough, but not altogether comfortable. Where in the name of wonder did you spring from?" "Is there any chance of that man you called Zuker coming back?" "No; you may be sure of that." "Then, first, let me get that rope off." Paul, as may be imagined, was by no means opposed to that proceeding. So Harry drew out his pocket-knife and promptly severed his bonds. "Ah, that's better," cried Paul, springing to his feet and stretching his limbs. "It's worth while being tied up, so as to feel how nice it is to be free again. Now perhaps you'll tell me how you got here?" "There's really no fear of that man, Zuker, coming back?" "No; I'm sure of it." "Then I'll explain. First of all, I must tell you that I've done a mean thing. You lost a letter when that scrimmage took place between you and Stan in the Common Room. I found it, and seeing that it was from my father, read it; then I was too ashamed to give it back to you, so I kept it. Hearing that there'd been a meeting about you in the Forum, I took the letter to Stan and showed it to him. As I came away from interviewing Stan, I saw you hurrying through the gates. You looked round, and seemed anxious that no one should see you. That made me curious. I'd just been reading my father's letter to you--remember. I'd begun to see there was some mystery which wanted clearing up. Why shouldn't I have a hand in it? I asked myself. So forgive me, Paul, I followed you." Paul was silent. How could he blame him? Was it not the same spirit of curiosity which had first led him to that place? "It was fortunately dusk, and I took good care that you shouldn't see me," continued Harry. "Besides, you seemed to be so taken up with your own thoughts that you scarcely looked round once when you had gained the common. It was easy following you after that. I was never so puzzled in my life when I saw you creeping about amongst the bushes, then disappear through the ground. "I was so close to you then, that I saw the exact place where you had disappeared, so that it did not take me long to find the opening to the tunnel. I must say that I funked following you farther; but my curiosity grew. I was on the verge of a big discovery. If I followed you, I should find out the secret which would explain the mystery about you, and set you right with the school. Believe me, Paul, that was what I longed for, and I don't think that anything short of that would have made me go farther, and so I felt my way along the tunnel until I could just see you stretched at full length beside the curtains at the entrance to this place." Paul recalled the sounds he had heard as he made his way along the tunnel. His hearing had not deceived him after all. "I was still more amazed when I saw that, I can tell you. I was struck all of a heap," went on Harry. "What were you up to? What were you doing there? You seemed to be watching for somebody. Who? I was burning. I got more and more curious. All thought of turning back had gone. I must find out what it all meant. So, when you rose to your feet, and stepped cautiously into this chamber, I just as cautiously crept to the place where you had been lying, and watched you moving about. Then I saw the man you called Zuker enter, and all that went on after. "It was fearful, Paul. I saw you were in a fix, but I could do nothing to help you. Once I tried to cry out. It was when that man used the long foreign word. I did not understand what it meant at first, though you seemed to; but presently, when you began to say 'Our Father,' I knew what it meant. Then it was I tried to cry out, but no word came from my parched throat. I think it must have been God who prevented me from crying out, for had I done so, it might have been worse for both of us. "A minute later I could see that a great change had come over the man when you began speaking about your father and Hibbert. Then I was knocked all of a heap again when I learned that poor little Hibbert was the man's son, and that you knew it. I think that the time I passed while I was watching and listening behind the curtain was the most awful I have ever been through--yes, worse than the time on the raft, and that's saying a great deal; but there was one good thing about it--I was beginning to see how we had all wronged you at Garside--what a noble fellow you really are, Paul." "Humbug! Get on." "There's little more to tell. I didn't so much mind when the man bound you, especially as I saw that he was going to leave you. I waited till he had gone--long enough to make sure that he didn't mean popping in his head again; then I crept from my hiding-place. The rest you know. I hope you're not sorry I followed you?" Paul began to think that the hand of God was in this, as it had been in so many other things. It must have been Something Higher than mere chance which had prompted Harry to follow him to that place. "Heaven only knows what might have happened to me, Harry, if you hadn't followed me. But come, we mustn't waste any more time. We don't want to spend the night in this place." "Not quite, though I would not mind exploring it some other time," exclaimed Harry, gazing round the chamber curiously. "Plunger would give something to strike on a place like this. It's chalks better than desert islands. Where does that other passage-way lead to?" Paul had more than once put the same question to him self. That place of mystery had often been in his thoughts since the day he had first visited it, and frequently had he asked himself--Where does it lead to on the other side? He had now seen clearly enough that there must be some way out on the other side, for Zuker had gone that way. If he could only find out, the information might be of some service to Harry's father. "I don't know, Harry; but I'd very much like to find out. Would you mind waiting here for a few minutes? I won't be long." "What are you going to do?" "Going to explore--just a little way. The coast's clear." "Going to explore? Well, then, I do mind waiting here. If you mean exploring, I mean going with you." "Very well, Harry, we'll explore together." So the two boys passed together through the passage on the other side of the chamber. CHAPTER XLVIII THE BURNING SHIP The two boys had not gone very far before they came to a pause. It was impossible to see more than a few feet in front of them because of the darkness. "Let's try to get a light," suggested Paul. "We can get one, I think, in the place we've just come from." They returned to the chamber. Paul entered the recess from which Zuker had brought the rope and the cushions, and found that it was quite a storehouse; one part of it for provisions, tinned meats, fruits, fish; another for wood, tools, weapons, models; a third, for a curiously mixed wardrobe, which Paul guessed served the purpose of disguise. Here he found a lantern and matches, and thus provided with a light, they resumed their way. The gallery or tunnel along which they now passed was about two hundred feet long. The width, as Paul roughly judged, was about thirteen feet, narrowing to some six or seven feet at the top. It had been cut through the chalk bed, at a depth of about six feet below the sand which covered it. At the end of this gallery were two passages, extending right and left. Passing down the former, they found it blocked by heaps of sand and chalk. "It's quite certain we can't get out that way, Harry," said Paul; "we'd better try the other." So, retracing their footsteps once more, they passed along the other passage. It was not so wide as the one they had already traversed, but the way was clear for a hundred yards or so; then the tunnel came abruptly to an end. Paul regarded the wall in wonder. There was no way through it. Where, then, had Zuker gone? How had he managed to get out? Paul held the lantern up and examined the roof. It was clear to see that he was standing below what had once been the shaft to the tunnel. There were footholes in the sides. "Ah, there's the way out! Hold the lantern, Harry, while I try to find the open sesame," said Paul. Harry took the lantern, and Paul quickly made his way by means of the footholes to the top. He could then see that there was a square space which, though similar in appearance to the rest of the gallery, concealed the entrance to the shaft. He pushed it upward. It gave easily. It was a trap-door, leading into a square, ramshackle shed! Paul made his way through into the shed, and a minute later Harry followed his example. They closed the trap-door, which then formed part of the floor, and completely concealed the opening into the shaft. "Well, if that doesn't beat all!" exclaimed Harry, as the trap-door fell. "Mr. Zuker and his confederates must have been very tricky. No one would imagine what's beneath this old shed. Hallo! What's that?" As Harry spoke a lurid gleam of light lit up the semi-darkness of the shed; only for an instant; then it as quickly died out. "Seems like a fire somewhere," said Paul, as he tried to open the door of the shed; but it would not open. It was locked on the outside. "We shall have to get through the window, Harry." There was a small window on the right of the shed, just wide enough to get through. "All right. Follow my leader, Paul." Paul soon mounted to the window and climbed through. Harry quickly followed him. As he reached the ground there came another lurid gleam of light; then it died out as quickly as before. "There it goes again, Paul. What is it?" Paul was asking himself the same question. What was it? Whence did the light come? It was a dark night--no moon and few stars. But in the distance they could see lights flitting about like will-o'-the-wisps from the mastheads of ships; so they knew they were not far from the Medway. "Thought so. We're close to the river," said Paul. "Now that we've found out all that we can, we'd better make for Garside." "Yes. Hallo! there it goes again! Why--why, it's a ship on fire!" exclaimed Harry. It was now clear enough to see that Harry was right. A ship was on fire. The flames, at first spasmodic, uncertain, had now gained a complete hold of the ship, and were shooting upward, like fiery serpents, into the sky. All thought of Garside vanished from the boys' minds as they raced towards the river. As they drew nearer, they could see that the unusual spectacle had already attracted a great throng of spectators to the banks. Little wonder, for as the flames crept upward to the rigging, writhing inward and outward to the arms, it was a grand, if terrible sight. And there was pathos in it, too; for the ship on fire was one of the great wooden ships in the Navy of the past. Its day of action--of fighting--had long since passed. So, moored in midstream, it had been used as a storeship. The signal-lights "Ship on Fire" flashed along the river, and a picket-boat from a flagship, with other boats, approached as near as they could to the burning ship. Was there anybody on board? It seemed not--so far, at least, as could be seen. But suddenly a cry of horror went up from the crowd. A man had suddenly made his appearance on the deck. He rushed about like a hunted fox, trying to elude its pursuers; then, finding it impossible, flung himself, with a strange cry that long haunted Paul's ears, into the river. Paul knew that the man was Zuker. The picket-boat tried to reach him, but could not. The fire had enveloped the sides of the old ship, and shot out tongues of flame from every porthole. For the space of a minute Zuker's figure was seen silhouetted in flame against the darkness. Then the waters closed over him, and he was seen no more. "That--that was Zuker. I'm sure of it," Paul whispered to Harry, when he could speak. "I thought it looked like him, too," said Harry, in an awestruck whisper. "What could he be doing on that ship?" "Up to no good, I'm afraid; but good or ill, his work is ended now." Zuker had at last come to his death by the element from which Paul's father had saved him so long ago. "Yes; I don't think he'll trouble anybody again," answered Harry, as he slipped his arm, with a shudder, through Paul's. The flames from the middle of the ship were now leaping fifty feet into the air. The river manuals played upon it, but made little or no impression. It seemed to hiss back contempt and defiance as the water fell. The excitement of the spectators grew, for a new and terrible source of danger had revealed itself. The chains by which the old ship was moored were beginning to give way. If that happened, she might drift, a mass of flame, against any one of the warships lying in her path. "I say, Paul, this business may get father into a mess," Harry whispered. Paul had forgotten, for the time, Mr. Moncrief's connection with the Government dockyard. Harry's words reminded him. A dread fear took possession of him. Perhaps the fire had all been designed--perhaps it was the work of an incendiary, and that incendiary Mr. Moncrief's enemy--Zuker. So long as the fire was limited to the old wooden ship it would not much matter, but if it once got from its moorings, it was impossible to say where the mischief would end. "Oh, you needn't worry about your father, Harry," Paul answered, putting on his most cheerful voice and manner. "No one could blame him for a ship catching fire." "I don't know so much about that. Pater's held responsible for almost everything. It's a great shame, that's what it is." Paul thought the same, but did not venture to express an opinion. A buzz of excitement from the crowd broke in upon his meditations. Looking in the direction in which all eyes were turned, he saw that a gunboat was steaming along the river. It was making for the flaming hulk. "What's it going to do?" cried Harry, clutching Paul's arm excitedly. "It'll be right into the burning ship." Paul was too intent on watching the man[oe]uvres of the gunboat to answer. Suddenly, when it had got to within one hundred yards of the burning ship, it stopped and opened fire, just as though it had entered into action. Its target was the old ship--a mass of flame from bow to stern. The first shell, missing its mark, went hissing into the river. Jets of water shot upward into the air and fell in a sparkling cascade. Boom! A flash of light from the gunboat, a whiff of smoke. This time the shell finds its target. Myriads of sparks are whirled in a mad dance to the heavens, then drop again like golden rain into the river. Shell followed shell. The old warship, engaged in its last great battle, fought grimly on. Like the old Guard, it refused to surrender. Twelve shots had been fired. Raked from bow to stern, it was a pathetic spectacle, like some huge leviathan lying wounded to death on the water, with its undaunted heart throbbing a requiem. Shell could not vanquish it, so a charge of guncotton was exploded immediately beneath it; then the old warship gave a lurch. There was a flash of light--its last dying effort. After, darkness. The great tongue of flame was engulfed in the waters. The boys had been so absorbed in the terrible spectacle that they had taken no heed of time. But when the ship had gone down, they found that it was ten o'clock. Garside was a good three miles distant, so that it would be close upon eleven before they reached the school again. Three or four search-parties had been formed under the masters, and they met one of these as they neared the gates. It had been decided between Paul and Harry that nothing should be said about their adventures in the cave until Paul had had an explanation with Mr. Weevil. There was, of course, no reason why they should not speak of the exciting spectacle they had witnessed on the river. "It must have been a remarkable sight," admitted Mr. Travers, the head of the search-party, "but I don't think Mr. Weevil is likely to accept it as an excuse for your long absence from the school. Besides, you had no business to take with you a junior boy." Harry was about to explain that he had followed of his own accord, but a glance from Paul kept him silent. When they reached the school, they found Mr. Weevil awaiting them in the hall. He seemed to know that something unusual had happened. "Come to my room, Percival," he said. Percival followed him to his room, just as he had done on that day when Hibbert died. "Something has happened. What is it?" he demanded, as he closed the door. There was no need for secrecy longer, so Paul told the master everything--how he had discovered Hibbert's parentage; how he had discovered the cave, and all the events that had happened in the train of these discoveries up to the moment of Zuker's death. "Zuker dead!" exclaimed the master, when Paul came to this part of his story. "You are sure of it?" "As certain as I can be of anything, sir." Mr. Weevil paced up and down the room with his arms behind him. It was very clear to Paul to observe that he was very much agitated. "Dead! dead!" he kept repeating; then suddenly stopped, and confronting Paul astonished him by abruptly demanding: "And what do you think of me--eh? What do you think of your master--eh? You think him a precious scoundrel--eh? You think that he ought to be with Zuker in the river--eh?" CHAPTER XLIX THE PETITION--WHAT BEFELL IT The master put the questions--the questions which formed so strong an indictment against himself--with grim solemnity. Paul scarcely knew how to answer him, so was silent. "Well?" persisted Mr. Weevil. "I must say that at one time I was suspicious of you, sir. I thought you were in league with traitors against your country--against England." "When did your opinion alter?" "When I heard you in the cave appealing to Zuker to give up his scheme; when I heard you telling him that the hand of a Higher than man was in it. Then I remembered that however stern you had been to others, you had been kind and tender to Hibbert, and it slowly dawned upon me that it was for poor Hibbert's sake you kept in with Zuker, that for his sake you were playing a part you did not care for." "Thank you. I'm glad you've done me justice in your own mind, Percival," answered the master, with more feeling than he was in the habit of displaying. "You have guessed my motive precisely. It was for Hibbert's sake--the son of the sister I loved--that I kept on friendly terms with Zuker. But my duty to Hibbert--my love for him--did not make me blind to the interests of my country. All along I have been in communication with the Moncriefs. It was I who first communicated with Mr. Henry Moncrief, in cipher, the information of Zuker's arrival in England. It was arranged, however, that Zuker was to be allowed to develop his plans, along with his confederates, before any action was taken to checkmate him. The Admiralty wished to obtain complete information of all the details of the scheme, and I alone was in the position of giving it them. First of all, however, I made my terms with the Admiralty. They were these: When Zuker's plans were developed, they were at liberty to take what action they pleased to counteract those plans, and arrest any accomplice who might be engaged in work with Zuker, but I made this proviso, that no step should be taken to arrest Zuker himself, without my knowledge and sanction. Furthermore, that in return for the information I was able to furnish as to every detail of the plot, I was to be permitted in the last resort to warn Zuker, so that he might escape to his native country, if he cared to. "In that interview you overheard, I made my first strong appeal to him. Unfortunately it was not successful, and worse than that, he became suspicious of me. The death of dear little Hibbert took away the only link that bound me to Zuker. One or two of his confederates were arrested, and he himself became conscious that the net was closing round himself. Your appearance in his hiding-place must have brought that home to him. What happened after that I can only guess. I have two theories--the first, that, in escaping by the river, he might have taken refuge for a time on the old battleship, and was in hiding at the time when the fire broke out. The other theory is that, recognizing that his schemes had been a complete failure, he deliberately set fire to the ship, and perished in the flames. He who knows the motives as well as the actions of all men, will alone know which of these theories is the right one. God be merciful to him, as to me, miserable sinner." Mr. Weevil stood with bowed head. And as he breathed, thus reverently, the response he had so often heard, Paul felt his mother's hand stealing into his, as it had so often stolen into it in the village church in days gone by, when the good vicar read the Litany, and prayed for deliverance from "lightning and tempest, from plague, pestilence, and famine; from battle and murder, and from sudden death." The man who had brought about "the sudden death" of his father, had ended his with tragic swiftness, and now stood before the Judge of all. The time for the last great trial had come for Israel Zuker. "Before Him--before the Judge of all men," said Mr. Weevil, at length breaking the silence, "I hope to justify myself for what I have done, as well as for what I have left undone, but in the meantime I shall never forget the part that you have played, Percival. It is true, profoundly true, that no good deed is ever lost. Your kindness to Hibbert will ever be a sacred memory to me. Good-night, Percival, and God bless you." "Good-night sir." And Paul, with his heart very full, turned from the room. When Paul went out, Mr. Weevil did not retire to rest. He was one of those men who require very little sleep. He unlocked a drawer in his desk, and took from it several loose sheets of paper, with entries on them. These he regarded closely for a moment or two, then leaned reflectively back in his chair, with eyes closed. Then he looked at the pages again, together with some memoranda jotted on a separate sheet of paper. His scrutiny ended, he put them back into the drawer, and locked them up again. Having done this, he took up a sheet of foolscap, on which was written, in the form of a petition, the resolution of the Fifth calling upon Mr. Weevil to expel Percival from Garside. To this petition were attached the names of the mover and seconder of the resolution--Stanley Moncrief and Parfitt--followed by the names of the other boys in the Form, with the exception of Waterman. Mr. Weevil had not yet answered this unusual petition, so he took up a pen and paper and wrote: "Mr. Weevil's compliments, and he will be pleased to meet the Fifth, and go into their petition to-morrow. As so delicate a matter cannot be discussed before the whole school, the form will return to the class-room, where the master will come to them at the end of the day's work. One last proviso, as it is the conduct of Percival which has been impugned, it will, of course, be necessary for him to be present at the inquiry, so that he may be heard in his own defence." This note he folded up, placed in an envelope, and directed to Hasluck, the head of the Form. The following morning it was delivered to Hasluck by Bax, the porter. Having read it, Hasluck passed it round the Form. Waterman was next to Percival. Instead of passing it to him, he just glanced at it and passed it back to Parfitt with a yawn. "Doesn't interest me. More in your line, Parfitt." Waterman, in this dexterous manner, escaped the painful duty of passing on a note for which he was in no way responsible. As he afterwards said, "he liked to see others troubling over their own underhand business." Parfitt bit his lip, then, without a word, handed it to Paul. Paul read it. He had no difficulty in understanding its meaning. Harry had told him about the meeting that had been held about him. This letter was the result of it. Adopting Parfitt's own tactics, he handed it back without a word, but he could not help stealing a glance at Stanley. His eyes were heavy, as though from want of sleep. He looked quite haggard and ill. He kept his eyes away from Paul, as though uncertain as to himself. He looked very miserable, and, indeed, he was even more miserable than he looked. At the close of school that day, the Fifth passed back to their class-room. Soon after, Mr. Weevil entered. He looked cold, stern, implacable--a different man from the one Paul had seen the previous night speaking in tremulous tones about Hibbert. Those little human traits seemed to have vanished with the night. He was no longer the man, but the judge. "Step forward, Percival," he said briefly. Paul stepped forward. "You know the charge against you?" "No, sir; I've come to hear." "The charge is in this petition," said the master, taking up the petition, which he unfolded and placed on the desk. "I needn't read it, but I can tell you briefly what the charge is. The charge is that you connived with the boys of a rival college--St. Bede's--to have the flag, which is held in so much honour and esteem here, stolen from the tower." "Yes, sir. Anything more?" asked Paul, as the master paused and glanced down at the petition. "The petition further alleges that having placed this dishonour on the school, you connived with the enemy to keep it by them till it suited your time and purpose, and that then you arranged for its return." "Time and purpose?" repeated Paul. "What purpose?" "What purpose?" repeated the master, glancing again at the petition. "It is clearly enough set forth. Listen. 'Percival had made enemies of his Form, and had looked for his friends at St. Bede's. His object in getting back the flag was to try to regain at one stroke some of his lost popularity.' Is that clear enough?" "Quite clear, sir. What followed?" "A resolution was moved and carried, with only one dissentient, that you should be expelled from the school." "Who--who moved the resolution?" asked Percival, with an effort. "Is it worth while my giving names?" "I would like to know, sir, if you would be kind enough." Mr. Weevil glanced at the names. He did not answer. The silence was broken by Stanley. "I moved the resolution, Percival--Paul!" he cried, in a voice that seemed to be choking him. "I did you an injustice before all the Form. I now ask your pardon before all the Form. I'm ashamed of myself--ashamed that I so degraded myself as to move that resolution. My eyes were shut. Now they're open. I've been groping about in the dark. Now I'm in the light. I was a fool ever to doubt you, but appearances were so against you. It was your turning away from Wyndham at the gravel-pits that so rankled in my mind, and--and your friendly meetings with him after. I did not know----" "Stop! Not quite so fast!" commanded Mr. Weevil. Stanley had poured out at a feverish rate the words that had been burning at his heart throughout the whole of the night and day. "Do I understand that you, Moncrief major, who proposed this resolution, now wish to withdraw it?" "Yes, sir; every word of it. I have wronged Percival--deeply wronged him, and before all the Form I ask his pardon." Paul's heart leapt with joy. He cared little what the others might think. Stanley had come round of his own accord. He had voluntarily asked his pardon. Paul grasped the hand stretched out to him. "I see that it was you, Parfitt, who seconded this resolution, asking that Percival should be expelled from the school. Is it your wish to withdraw also?" asked the master. "Certainly not," said Parfitt indignantly. "I'm not going to turn tail because Moncrief has. If Moncrief has sold me, I'm not going to sell all the other fellows who signed that petition." A murmur of approval came from "the other fellows," except Waterman. He greeted it with the customary yawn. "You still hold to your wish that Percival should be expelled from Garside?" asked Mr. Weevil. "Yes, sir." "You understand that expelling a scholar from Garside is a very serious matter. It is a grave stigma placed on him at the commencement of his career--a stigma which clings to him when he goes from school into the sterner battle of life. I'm bound to impress this upon you, Parfitt, so that you may understand the gravity of the step you wish me to take." "I understand, sir. We all understand." "And you decline to do what Moncrief has done--withdraw from the petition?" "Yes, sir. We can't stand Percival any longer." "Hear! hear!" from Newall. Suddenly, to the astonishment of the Form, the master opened the desk before him, and drew from it a book. "You know this book?" he demanded. Know it? They knew it but too well. It was the dreaded Black Book. CHAPTER L FOUND OUT Why had the master produced the Black Book? What was it to do with the question whether Percival should or should not be expelled? "You are wondering why I produce the Black Book," said the master slowly, as though reading their thoughts. "I will explain--we have never yet discovered who tore out the leaves from this book. It occurred to me that before taking the step of expelling Percival from the school, it would be as well to make one more effort to find out who is the culprit. "A few weeks ago, I received an anonymous letter suggesting that Percival should be questioned as to what he was doing on the night that part of the Black Book, and other documents, disappeared from my desk. As a rule, I take no heed of anonymous communications. The testimony of any one who is ashamed to put his name to a letter is, as a rule, worthless. But I was keenly interested in trying to discover who the culprit was who opened my desk, and I thought it just possible that if I could only find out the writer of this anonymous letter, it might lead to other discoveries which would throw light upon the theft of my notes." The boys listened intently. What did it mean? Was yet another and more serious charge to be made against Percival? "The letter was in a disguised hand, like most anonymous letters," the master proceeded; "but a master becomes a bit of an expert in handwriting, so, with the help of Mr. Travers here, the master of your Form, I was not long in finding out who wrote the anonymous letter. It was written by Parfitt." The accusation was made slowly, deliberately, as by one who makes sure of his facts before speaking. It fell as a bomb in the midst of the listening boys. Parfitt turned to an ashen hue, and muttered something between his teeth. "Speak up, sir! Please not to mutter," commanded Mr. Weevil, turning to Parfitt. "Do you deny that this letter"--he held up the anonymous letter, with its cramped, disguised handwriting--"is the work of your hand?" Parfitt held up his head, and put on a bold front. "No, sir; I don't deny it. That letter was written by me. As there were other things coming out against Percival, I thought it only right that you should make some inquiry into what he was doing on the night when the pages were torn from the Black Book. I did not want to push myself forward. I thought the inquiry would be better made by you; but as no steps seem to have been taken to find out what Percival did, I don't see why I should keep back what I know any longer." "Well, what is it? What do you know? I am here to learn all I can." "Well, sir, on the night that the pages were torn from the Black Book, I saw Percival get out of bed, slip into some of his things, and out of the dormitory. I saw him steal along the corridor, for what purpose I couldn't guess. I made a pretty good guess the next day." "Your guess was that Percival opened my desk, and stole the papers?" "I believe he did, sir. For what else could he have stolen from the dormitory in the dead of night?" "Well, but what could be his purpose? Can you explain that?" "Oh, that's easy enough explained. There were entries against himself and his friend Moncrief in the book. A serious one had been made against Moncrief that very afternoon, for which, you will remember, sir, he was sent to Dormitory X." "I remember--quite well," said the master. "Well, Percival, what have you to say against this last charge?" "Only that it is as false as the other." "Did you leave your dormitory that night?" "Yes, sir; I don't deny that. I did leave my room, but not to steal. I left it to go to Moncrief in Dormitory X. I thought the punishment too severe, sir, if you'll pardon me for saying so, so I thought that I would keep him company. It was wrong of me, I know; but I did not give it much thought at the time." "And I can confirm every word that Percival has said!" exclaimed Stanley. "He came to me that night--to Dormitory X." "Pshaw!" cried Newall, taking up Parfitt's case. "How could he get to you through the locked door?" "He didn't get through the door. He came along the parapet, and got through the dormer window." Blank amazement fell on the group. "It's all very well to say that. Any one could say that," cried Parfitt; "but we want something better than that. We want proof!" "If you won't take Moncrief's word, I think I can prove it by Mr. Weevil," said Paul, turning to the master. "As I passed by the window of your room, sir, I took the liberty of peeping in. I saw you discussing some plans with a friend. Perhaps you can recall it, sir?" Mr. Weevil's mind had gone back to that night. He knew well enough to whom Paul was referring thus delicately as his friend--Zuker. "Percival is right in every particular, but"--he broke off, as though suddenly recalling something--"there is one thing I ought to say. Fancying I heard a noise in Dormitory X that night, I paid it a visit, but found nobody there, except Moncrief, and he seemed fast asleep." Parfitt, who had been looking glum, brightened up at this again. "Seemed, sir," repeated Stanley, with a smile; "but I was just about as wide awake as I am now, and Percival was--under the bed." There was a titter of laughter at this piece of information. The ghost of a smile played across the stern face of Mr. Weevil. "I think Percival has made it perfectly clear as to where he was that night. You see that he is perfectly innocent of the charge brought against him by Parfitt; so we are thrown back into precisely the position we were in before. We have still to find out who is the real culprit--who it was opened my desk that night. As Parfitt has failed in his purpose, let us put our heads together and see if we can get a little nearer the truth. I will try to reconstruct the case for you, as the French say. Who was the culprit? What was his motive? His motive was to get possession of certain pieces of paper in my desk which gave valuable information for a prize competition which was taking place amongst the seniors--the prize, that is to say, to be given by Admiral Talbot for the best essay on 'The Invasion of Great Britain.' He did not want the Black Book. That would give him no assistance in his essay; but what he wanted was to throw suspicion on a certain boy--also a competitor for the prize--who was absent from his dormitory that night. He did this by removing the leaf, amongst others, which referred to the boy himself and the detention of his friend in the Punishment Dormitory. Am I clear?" The Form were following Mr. Weevil so closely that they could only murmur an assent. "I have told you about the anonymous letter," continued Mr. Weevil, "and the conclusion I had arrived at by the help of Mr. Travers. You have seen that that conclusion is correct, for Parfitt has himself admitted it. So much is clear. Now follow me a little farther. Not long after receiving this anonymous letter, some of the competitors began to send in their essays for the Talbot prize. Among others was one from Parfitt." A profound silence fell on the room as the master once more pronounced that name. Every eye was turned to Parfitt, who was still doing his best to put on a bold face. "It was a remarkably clever piece of work and would assuredly have won the prize. It was too clever, in fact. It contained information which astonished me--information which could not be obtained from the school library. It was information, in fact, such as I myself had obtained after special research, and which had been embodied in the notes that had been stolen from my desk." "You mean to say that I am the thief--that I stole your notes!" blustered Parfitt. "Silence, sir!" came the stern voice of the master. "Have the courtesy to hear me to the end. I have but little more to add, and then I shall be only too pleased to hear anything you may have to say in your defence. The way in which the information was used was so ingenious that it would have been quite impossible to declare that the writer of this essay was the culprit. I was quite certain of it in my own mind, but it needed additional proof. How to get it was the next point. In consultation with Mr. Travers here, a speedy decision was come to. It was of the utmost importance that the innocent should be cleared; the guilty punished. A locksmith was called in on the next half-holiday. Parfitt's box was opened, its contents examined. At the bottom we discovered the missing notes. The pages from the Black Book, as being useless, had been destroyed. The same fate would doubtless have followed my notes, so soon as the result of the competition was known. I took the notes from the box. A facsimile was put in their place. Here are the originals." He held up the notes. All heads were eagerly craned forward to look at them. "These are the originals," repeated the master, when the sensation caused by their production had abated. "I doubt not the facsimiles to which I have referred will still be found in Parfitt's box. What I suggest, therefore, is that he hand over his key to Hasluck, the head of this Form, that the porter should then bring the box to this room, and that it be opened in the presence of all of you. We shall then see if the facsimiles are still there." Not a word fell from Parfitt's lips in answer to this appeal. At that moment he was passing through one of the most terrible ordeals a boy can pass through. The silence in the room became painful. "I hope it won't be needful to call in the locksmith again, Parfitt," said the master. Then in a burst of agony came from the wretched boy's lips: "You needn't open the box. I--I did it." He dropped to the form, and covered his ashen face with his hands. Then came the master's voice again, with the solemnity of a judge pronouncing sentence: "I did not wish to go through this ignominy, Parfitt, before the whole school. That is the reason I confined the inquiry to your Form and this room. Everything has been done to spare your feelings, though I cannot help saying that you do not seem to have cared very much for the feelings of others. I am sorry to say that the sentence you wished passed on Percival must be passed on yourself. You can no longer remain a scholar at Garside." Parfitt knew well enough what that meant--it was a sentence of expulsion. He staggered to his feet, and was about to pass out without a word, when the voice of Paul brought him to a standstill. "I do not mind what has been said against me--indeed, I don't!" exclaimed Paul; "we've all made mistakes; so please don't go so far with Parfitt. Don't expel him. Give him another chance!" Parfitt could scarcely believe his ears. The boy whom he had sought to expel was taking his part--pleading that he might remain. "It is generous of you to plead for him, but after what has happened, how is it possible for him to remain?" said the master. Paul scarcely knew how to answer; but as he stood nonplussed a mist rose in the room, and as the mist cleared he saw a garden, with a delicate-faced boy, lying in an invalid chair, as though asleep. A little wren had perched itself upon his shoulder. "Let him stay for--for Hibbert's sake," came in a gulp. The master turned his head for a moment. When he once more faced the boys, the hard light had vanished from the blinking eyes, and a softer light shone there. "What has happened has not gone beyond this room. The facts, so far, have not been disclosed to the whole school," he said. "It may not, perhaps, be necessary. I will see what can be done in consultation with my colleagues. I trust it may be possible for us to respond to Percival's generous appeal. Attention! Half-turn! March!" And the boys filed slowly from the class-room. * * * * * Vacation at last! To Paul the term through which he had passed was the most memorable in his school life, as it was, perhaps, the most memorable in the history of the school. He spent a week with the good mother whom he loved, and who so loved him. He sat again in the old church with her, and heard again the vicar's fervent voice in the Litany: "From lightning and tempest; from plague, pestilence, and famine; from battle and murder, and from sudden death." In the days gone by he used to wonder how it was that his mother's hand used to tremble in his when those solemn words echoed in the church. Now he understood, as he knelt once more by her dear side--none better. The last term at Garside had taught him a lesson which would never be erased from his mind so long as life lasted. At the end of the week he went to Redmead, in response to the invitation which Mr. Walter Moncrief had sent him in that letter to Garside which had caused him such heart-burning. Stanley was there to meet him. The old friendship between them was resumed. The clouds had passed away, leaving them the better, the stronger--they were once more in the sunshine. Mr. Moncrief had learnt all that had happened at Garside. Harry entertained them at tea-time with his and Plunger's adventures as members of the Mystic Order of Beetles, and his sister nearly had a fit of apoplexy as he described Plunger crawling on hands and knees round the ring while the Mystic Brethren proceeded to initiate him as "a brother." Stanley was the only one who was not infected with Connie's mirth. He remained so serious amid the general merriment that Harry suddenly brought down his hand upon his shoulder and in a tragic voice declaimed the incantation which had made so remarkable an impression upon Plunger: "Beetles of the Mystic Band, Wind we round thee hand in hand," and so on. "No, we're not going to send Stan to the Realms of Creepy-Crawley," smiled Connie, putting her arm through her cousin's with an air of possession as Harry ended: "We don't mind Mr. Plunger going there. He'd be quite at home; but not Stan." Stanley smiled, but soon relapsed into his former gravity. "A penny for your thoughts, Stan!" said Mrs. Moncrief. "Oh, I was only thinking of one of the Beetles--Wyndham. I was wondering whether we should see anything of him during the vac." "Would you like to meet him?" asked Mr. Moncrief. "Very much." Paul said nothing; but he felt a keen sense of gratification at the words that fell from Stanley. It showed that all animosity towards Wyndham had completely vanished, and that he was anxious to meet him again, not as an enemy, but on a footing of friendship. Mr. Moncrief was absent for a good part of the next day. On the day following he announced that he was going to take them for a drive in the wagonette. They were, of course, anxious to know where. "Well, Harry has asked me once or twice whether we couldn't travel over some of the ground over which Paul travelled on the night when he broke in upon us here at the end of his last vacation. I think this is the most favourable opportunity we shall have to carry out his suggestion, if you're all agreeable." Of course they were agreeable. So, early the next morning, the wagonette came to the door, and the little party, in the best of spirits, started on the drive. No contrast could have been greater than the contrast between that morning of bright sunshine and the night when Paul started from Redmead with Mr. Moncrief. On that never-to-be-forgotten night danger seemed to be lurking in every hedgerow. The shadows lay thickly across their pathway, and the sight of home had never been so dear to Paul as when he at length came in sight of it that night. How different it all seemed in the bright sunshine! By an indirect route they came to the common over which Paul had ridden on Falcon. They stopped at the spot where Zuker and his confederate had seized Falcon's bridle. Then they turned back, and paused once more where the brave horse had staggered and fallen. Paul had not seen the place since, and as they reached it, he lived once again through the incidents of those few terrible moments when the life-blood of Falcon was slowly oozing away. He could see it lying there; he could see the crimson stream running from its flank, the look of pathos in its eyes as it turned to him. "I think we will drive on," said Mr. Moncrief gently. "We owe a good deal to Falcon, so I mean to have a little memorial to his memory some day--to the memory of a noble horse. There are some animals, it seems to me, who are as much entitled to it as human beings." A great surprise was in store for them when they reached the well down which Paul had hidden from his pursuers. Wyndham was standing there, just as he had stood on the night when he had covered Paul's retreat! Then it turned out that Mr. Moncrief had arranged this little surprise on the previous day; that he had visited Wyndham, and appointed to meet him at the well. To the delight of the boys, the arrangement went still further--Wyndham was to return with them, and spend a few days at Redmead. Stanley was one of the first to give him a hearty greeting. "You must be my friend as well as Paul's," he said earnestly, as he shook him by the hand. "There's no one, I suppose, who would like to repeat Paul's experience in the well?" smiled Mr. Moncrief, when the excitement of the meeting had cooled down. The invitation, it is unnecessary to say, was "declined with thanks." The happy party returned to Redmead. When the evening came on, the blinds drawn, the lamps lit, and the friends were all together, Paul could not help thinking there was just one thing missing to complete the day's experience. "When I came here that night and listened at the door, you were singing," he said. "Singing what?" asked Mrs. Moncrief. "'Now the day is over.'" "Happy thought! Let us have it again!" exclaimed Mr. Moncrief. Mrs. Moncrief went to the piano, and heartily they sang: "Now the day is over, Night is drawing nigh, Shadows of the evening Steal across the sky. Through the long night watches, May Thine angels spread Their white wings above me, Watching round my bed." Of a surety that fervent appeal had been answered. God had indeed guarded the boys through the "long night watches" at school, and through much trial and temptation had brought them safely together under the same hospitable roof. THE END * * * * * A SERIES OF EXCELLENT STORIES Full of incident and adventure, which will be read with keen interest and enjoyment. _Each with a distinctive Coloured Jacket, Coloured Frontispiece and other Illustrations. In Large Crown 8vo, cloth gilt._ "HONOUR BRIGHT" (David Chester's Motto) _By H. ESCOTT-INMAN_ THE SECOND FORM MASTER OF ST. CYRIL'S _By H. ESCOTT-INMAN_ LOYAL AND TRUE _By M. B. MANWELL_ THE BOYS OF MONK'S HAROLD _By J. HARWOOD PANTING_ CLIVE OF CLAIR COLLEGE _By HARRY HUNTINGDON_ THE HERO OF GARSIDE SCHOOL _By HARRY HUNTINGDON_ THE TWO RUNAWAYS _By HARRY HUNTINGDON_ AN UPHILL GAME _By HARRY HUNTINGDON_ PUBLISHED BY FREDERICK WARNE & CO., LTD. LONDON AND NEW YORK